An Open Challenge
by PhantomProducer
Summary: Prompts, ideas, alternate story lines...all this and more in this disjointed fic, which will vary from chapter to chapter. Includes our favorite detective, doctor, actress/thief, Napoleon of Crime, and much more!
1. Playlist 1

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N: **Ah yes, another fic started by yours truly. I'd sweep a bow, but...then again, you all can't see me anyway. Still, it is I, PhantomProducer, with another little fic idea. This particular fic will remain open to a myriad of prompts and ideas, alternate story lines, and the like. And these prompts and ideas will include characters from the films, some nods to the original books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and my own characters from my other Holmes fanfiction. If you need clarification on the character Madeline or anyone unfamiliar, you can go to my fanfictions entitled _**Blood Bond**_ and _**His Home**_ for a frame of reference. If clarification of the prompt/idea needs to be done, it will be listed in future author notes.  
>If anyone has a prompt idea they would like to read about, just let me know in a reviewPM. Thanks!  
>Ok, we all got that? Alright we can move ahead now...time to press on.<p>

First Prompt: Playlist Prompt (when I didn't know the artist, I listed the show the song was from). Enjoy and review, please!

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><p><em>Rules:<em>

_1. Pick a character, fandom, pairing, friendship, whatever._

_2. Put your music on shuffle/random and start playing songs._

_3. For each song, write something inspired by the song related to the theme you chose earlier. No pre-planning and no writing after the song is over. No skipping songs, either._

_4. Do 10 songs and post. Be sure to include the song/artist._

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><p><strong>1. <em>Anytime You Need a Friend<em> – The Beu Sisters**

Sherlock Holmes is his own man. Has been since the age of twelve, when his father left him and his mother behind and his mother exhibited the madness that accompanied emotion. Even before that, he has been alone, labeled as "the strange boy" or "Him". It never mattered that he has a brother seven years his senior. He never truly needed others, anyway, he has told himself. He had his logic and intelligence, his coolness and centered peace of mind. He kept himself company, freeing his mind trailing elusive facts and obvious clues, passing the time and driving away the licks of madness that at times would appear.

But at what cost is he his own man?

He asks himself this many times as he bends to work over the chemistry set at Cambridge, alone and avoided by his colleagues. A fledgling detective, a somewhat-off-kilter mind that depends on himself. He has barely any family, not that he minds, truly he doesn't…and friends…

A friend.

Someone who could be there in the most frightening situations, catch you when you've fallen, someone who would still be there, no matter the cost.

He snorts, tapping the beaker before him. He's never known the elusive comfort of a fellowship or camaraderie…no matter. He's his own man.

He hears a tapping at the door. Two stomping pairs of feet, one assisted by a cane and struggling to walk at all. Intriguing, he thinks. Holmes looks up…

"Sherlock Holmes, this is John Watson. He is looking for some rooms in the City, like you."

…And he sees a friend.

**2. _Shy Girl_ – O-Town**

His heart beats rapidly in his chest as he looks across the room at the young lady pressed against the back wall of the cotillion. John Watson has never seen someone as…lovely as this woman. Golden red hair, sweet freckled face, angled chin and flushed skin. Her grey eyes flick over at him, and he cannot help himself. Rather than tarry to listen to Holmes backhandedly compliment the hosts, old clients who wished to thank him for his hard work, Watson moves fluidly over the floor, to her corner. Her mermaid beauty, her siren's song of the eyes, draw him in.

'_Please don't run away,'_ he cries in his mind when she looked up again and shot him a glance of pure shock. Effectively he takes his final steps, the cane heavy in his hands and his tongue fumbling in his mouth.

"H-hullo," he manages, and she smiles, relieved to know she's not the only one who can be shy.

**3. _Stand_ – Rascal Flatts**

A single candle flickered in the darkness, the last witness to Sherlock's hasty blood ritual performed in the Punch Bowl. The man in question was hunched on his makeshift bed of sheets and chairs, half-asleep and half not, nearly burned out himself. He'd been pushed to the limits because this case, enduring everything from personal humiliation to the near-death of his only friend. He'd been wrestled, arrested, pushed down and thrown aside, all to catch Blackwood. Driven to the brink of despair and back again, with Adler and her employer breathing proverbially down his neck, he felt split and torn, and he only felt it appropriate at this point in the juncture that he'd fallen so gracelessly so many times the past few days.

But for every time he'd fallen, he'd gotten back up, shaking it off and going on. It was his job, it was his life.

Mary said to solve this, whatever it took.

It would take more than a madman to stop him from standing, especially since he was so close to the answer. Now all he had to do was wake up from the stupor he put himself in…

**4. If I Can't Love Her – _Beauty and the Beast_**

Holmes winced as he recognized the biting truth of the words Irene had half mumbled when he cast her out. When he refused her a second time. When he was leaving to check on Madeline and discover why she ran from him and everyone at the fencing demonstration.

"You'll never love."

It was true that he was cold as a block of ice and turned away from emotion as one would turn his or her back on a plague victim. But it was not an aversion of women as an entirety…it was a form of fear, a fear of letting down the defenses and allowing another to see him as he truly was.

It was why Irene failed in convincing him to chasing after her, why his pain was his and his alone.

But then he met Madeline. Stubborn, loving, strong-willed, block-headed Madeline. A true friend, a mothering figure, a good, strong light in a dark world, his dark world. Oh dear, he was waxing lyrical again, that would never do.

Fear gripped him again, but this time he could not ignore the emotions roiling under the surface. He pretended they weren't there, that his feelings would remain unresolved for both their sakes.

After all, he could not love her, he thought.

_'But if I can't love her_,' he pondered, throwing on his overcoat and stepping out into the blistering cold December night, '_then who?'_

**5. _Trainwreck_ – Demi Lovato**

"Odds are, my dear, that inevitably we may separate and therefore no longer be friends after this…endeavor." His mouth forms the words, but his brown eyes glint with hidden humor and hope that he is wrong.

"Is that so?" She laughs, shaking her head and tossing her light brown locks. Running a hand along the sideboard, she picks up a small bottle. "What medication is this now?"

"None that I take, and do not attempt to change the subject." He plucks it out her hand, but does not leave her side.

"Just curious, and I never said I was changing the subject. I simply am not inclined to agree with you at the moment."

"But…I must posit that we may not…perhaps…"

"And why wouldn't we?"

Sherlock lists his bad habits: the cocaine, the addiction to solving puzzles, the thrill of the macabre, the danger of his work, and his bad habit of hurting those he cared for because he (shockingly) cared about them. He cites that the facts stack up against him. After his speech, he is, for once, surprised to find her pressing a kiss against a corner of his mouth.

"You're one of a kind, a mad, pig-headed, train wreck of a man." Madeline winks at him, her green eyes flashing with something deeper than plain affection as she does so. Unfortunately (for his logical mind, at least), he feels his heart and hope swell.

"I wouldn't love you if you changed. If you change, then…perhaps, your theory may be fact."

**6. _At This Moment_ – Michael Bublé**

At her heart-breaking news (or so she thought at least, given how attached he'd gotten to her over the course of the past few months), Irene Adler was somewhat surprised to see nothing of grief or anger in Sherlock Holmes' face. He continued righting his clothing, maneuvering off the bed and away from her, with the blankest face she'd ever seen.

"Sherlock, did you not hear me? I am to be married in the fall. October."

He inclined his head, blinking and shrugging as he adjusted his trousers. "I heard you well, madam. I also have read the society pages and knew of this fact three days ago. I would certainly be remiss if I stopped reading the paper, no matter how I occupy the majority of my time."

"But, I thought-"

"What?" He buttoned his shirt, retrieving his waistcoat. "What did you think I would do at this moment?"

His brown eyes locked onto Irene, her body wrapped in a sheet and her mouth gaping unbecomingly.

"Did you think I would hate you, raise my hands to you? Hmm, I thought you knew me better than that," Sherlock remarked bitterly. "I would never harm an innocent person…"

The corners of his eyes crinkled in a flash of temper, the only indication of his feelings on the matter.

"Intentionally. You've made your decision; I will…respect it."

The barb went straight into her heart, but Irene would not admit to feeling it anymore than Holmes would.

"Very well. This is to be the last time we will meet in this capacity."

"Agreed."

Once he was fully dressed and out the door, Holmes felt the kick to his heart and had to press himself against the wall to not lose his footing.

"I will miss you…" he croaked, his throat constricting for the smallest moment, before he swallowed and somehow found his way out of the Grand Hotel, back home to Baker Street, Watson…and his loneliness.

**7. Story of Chess – _Chess_**

He'd retired from the ballroom, determined to make his last stand against Moriarty away from the public eye. Wincing, he adjusted the decorative strap across his shoulder to lessen the pain from his injury. Idly his hand brushed across the chess table set out before him, taking in the colors of the pieces.

Each time one played the game of chess, the variations changed, mistakes from the last were rectified in the next. Moves over time had changed, the pieces changed names, but the story of chess remained as ever it had.

Holmes picked up a queen. One woman came between two men, one mother between two sons if the original myth of chess was true. Two ambitious men, set on taking back the world they kept stealing from one another. Once one son died, the queen was outraged at the winner. Grieved, the son used the game of chess to explain how the final battle took place.

And throughout the hundreds of years since its introduction, the game had come to explain thousands of other battles. Every final battle, every move by rook, knight, and pawn would explain how the rival king had brought the other to his knees in checkmate.

Holmes set the queen back on her square, and waited in the bitter cold. The simplest and most complicated pleasure of the game came in showing how you have bested your opponent. White king against black king. Dark against light. Right against wrong.

Game on.

**8. Diva's Lament – _Spamalot_**

Irene looked up from her script, annoyed. When she'd agreed to take the role, she wasn't exactly aware how little she apparently was on stage. Her frown deepened as she read on. Damn those producers, giving her bit roles!

And people wondered why she was driven to theft and seduction as a way sustaining herself.

She noticed she was in quite a bit of the first act, which was in her favor, but oh the second act…atrocious! This would not do…she bit her lip, frowning. Perhaps she could take it up with the producers, speak and flatter her way into a better role. She couldn't believe this insult, this slight. Or perhaps Sherlock could give her some evidence to use against them into finagling a greater role.

No, she reminded herself he and Watson were off on some escapade or another. Said something about topiary or whatever…if he wanted some bushes, far be it from her to tell the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't have his bushes.

She may not have been the most popular actress around, but she knew she was better than what they were offering. Sighing, she set down the script.

It was time to talk with Davies, her acting agent, into finding her truly good parts from now on.

**9. _All I Do is Dream of You_ – Michael Bublé**

John Watson, doctor and friend of Sherlock Holmes, was slowly becoming intolerable.

Holmes began to notice first the tiny smile that cropped up on his mustachioed friend's lips at odds moments of the day. His blue eyes became unfocused and distant, indicating his having entered his daydreams momentarily. Sherlock could only surmise that Watson was caught up morning, noon, and night thinking about his new lady-love…what was her name? Mary, that was right.

And he was right. John was dreaming of pretty, vivacious, quick Mary. So much so that his attention to everything else was slipping. He envisioned her coming to him, tell him she loved him, and he thought of what he'd say back to her…just as his hand let his cane drop and Sherlock Holmes stumbled over it.

Yes, his constant dreaming of her was verging on ridiculous, and needed to be remedied. Immediately.

"Just court the lady already, for God's sake," Holmes told him brusquely as he rose. And unwittingly he set Watson's secret plans into motion. And thus, he realized later, it was his fault that it had all happened at all.

**10. _Til I Hear You Sing_ – Andrew Lloyd Webber**

Madeline feels her soul cracking this night, as she looks upon the violin and plucks it absently in the darkness.

It has been four months since the death of Holmes, her good friend, her…love.

Hazily she counts the days on her calendar, in a weak attempt to keep herself awake. For when she sleeps, she sees his face. She sees him, the brooding, calculating, devious man. A man with a good heart buried under layers of cynicism and harshness. She dreams of their brief times together, of a dear future they would never have. She always wakes reaching out to him, her fingers slipping through him and into the dark.

Her heart has never stopped aching since she's learned the truth of his death at Reichenbech Falls. He'd gone over the edge with Moriarty…into crashing oblivion.

She hits a sour note on the strings, and recalls how beautifully he used to play. Granted, he played mostly when stuck trying to think of solutions to solving a crime, but he was so very good on the violin. She misses his music, his determination…just him entirely.

She does not want to retain her hopes and dreams of him and with him. What use are they really? They are preventing her, in a very small way, from moving on and getting over what could never be. He is gone, gone forever. The hopes and dreams are useless without him to be there for them.

Resolutely she sets the instrument down and turns away, wrestling her emotions down deep into her body. She would forget, she would get on, has already taken steps to continue her survival and life.

This night, though, she still wishes she could hear him once more.


	2. Memory

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** All is rolling along here rather nicely...

Second prompt-Memory.

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><p>He hears it again on the phonograph in a musician's shop down the street. Merely out to retrieve replacement strings for his Stradivarius, he tuts politely at the shopkeeper's newest acquisition. He hardly pays it any mind as the man lays down the needle and allows it to play quietly in the background. The man goes to fill the order, and he waits, not listening.<p>

That is, he ignores it until…IT…starts playing again.

Suddenly, Holmes is back in that small room, dangling from that hook with excruciating pain wracking his body. He can see Moriarty standing at the mirror, singing along like some damned opera star while his subject of torment is screaming incessantly. He is dangling helplessly, the ceiling having no give and the emptiness of the room showing how alone he truly is with this monster. And that music, that piece…playing over his terrible hollering as he is pushed to and fro. The swinging, the screaming, the horror of it all. He had, at that point, expected a confrontation with the Napoleon of Crime, but nothing quite so sinister. That was cruelty in its finest form, when a man chooses torture for profit. Of course Sherlock did choose to go there, to make himself vulnerable…but he did NOT choose his fate. He could not shake the feeling of piercing anguish, and haunting syllables continue to pour into his ears as he processes his memories.

Many cannot claim they've seen a man react so strongly to a simple piece by Schubert, but the other patrons in the shop can see such a thing happening to Mr. Holmes. His face goes white before flushing scarlet. His shoulders shake, and the perspiration begins to crop up on his forehead. His dark eyes are riveted to the ground, hoping that if nobody looks him in the eye, they won't see the irrational fear streaking through the irises.

He must be clinical, he must be logical, he must NOT succumb to these mad stirrings.

Then, he starts to breathe again, and he does the next logical thing he can think of.

He throws the phonograph out the window, and lays down some money towards the costs of repairs straight after the action. Swiftly he writes down his address to deliver the strings to him at a later date before walking out of the shop still shaking. One day, he knows he must conquer this illogical state of being, but for today, it was enough to destroy it in some physical form.

Moriarty has shaken him, his memory still shakes him, but Holmes will have the upper hand, even at the expense of one phonograph.

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><p><strong>AN 2:** I know I'd have some issues if I heard the song that played while I was strung up from the ceiling like a piece of meat, that's for sure...let me know what you think!


	3. Brothers

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N: **One thing I really, really enjoyed about the new Sherlock Holmes movie was the inclusion of Mycroft. And not just Mycroft, but Stephen Fry as Mycroft. Brilliant man, loved him very much in it...I just felt the urge to write something about Mycroft and his little brother Sherly this time around. ;)

Idea: A scene between two brothers...

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><p>The older brother merely listened to the berating his sibling rained down on him. Having fetched him home from a local detective's domicile, Mycroft Holmes had gotten and given an earful about his brother's behavior around a recent murder in the area. Sherlock's affinity for solving puzzles could not be ignored, and so he, in youthful earnestness, wanted to help solve the case. Letters going to and from the house under a nom de plume, mad experiments in the kitchen, sampling his own blood for testing, the youngest Holmes had the house in complete disarray. And, unforgivably, though he arrived at the right conclusions, he oftentimes guessed his way to them. That was the final straw, in Mycroft's mind, as he extended his holiday visit to deal with the matter.<p>

Mycroft, acting in his absent father's stead, was forced to shut the operation down and take Sherlock over to the home for explanations. This action, to say the least, ruffled some feathers of the old crowing policemen. And as he took him back to the family estate, the younger Holmes deigned to give him a piece of his mind. Would it not have been more prudent, he surmised, for him to have kept his mouth shut, the little one suggests? Honestly, Mycroft was unsure if Sherlock was being serious or ironic as he took a seat in the parlor.

"Naturally, my age is a deterrent for being taken seriously in any field outside of childhood frivolity, but I at a mere thirteen just presented the policemen with enough evidence to put away that man for good!"

At twenty years of age, Mycroft knew he needed to be the one with grace and dignity. So he let the rambling continue as he perused the newspaper. Nothing new, just the updates on the society pages ending up exactly as he predicted they would…

"I pointed out the samplings, the facts, the proof! I had a successful communiqué by letter with those imbeciles. Why did you go and spoil it all by telling them I am a minor?"

"Because, dear Brother Sherly, you _are_," the elder Holmes finally interjected, setting down the paper and looking his brother in the eye. "I know you; I know how bright you are. Nearly as bright as me…"

Sherlock, still unguarded in his youth, rolled his eyes and let his impatience show.

"…However, the fact that you obligingly forget in times like these is that you _are_ a minor, that what you are playing at is not a game but _crime investigation_, and though the force can be blockheaded and ill-advised, they are a group of professional adults. Not amateurs, and not adolescent amateurs at that."

Leaning forward as if to share some government secret, Mycroft murmured, "It is not enough to merely guess at the answers, Sherlock. Never guess. Confirm your theories as fact before you present them as proof. You may have had the samplings, but none of it was entirely conclusive. You conjecture, but you have half-proofs. I know you are more intelligent than that. Gather data, arrive at the sound conclusion-not just the right one-and then present it."

The elder Holmes brother leaned back in his chair, watching how the words were affecting Sherlock. The lad's face was twisting and showing how profoundly the speech influenced him. His indignant look slid away, and Mycroft fancied himself a fine orator indeed. However, the cogs behind the face were turning ever-faster, and the look returned.

"Even so, _Mykie_, did you have to tell them I was still a schoolboy who collected river and pond ducks and turned them loose in the Peckham's yard to examine behavioral patterns? Or that I was assaulted by Mrs. Silver at the milliner's for dripping mercury on her skirt?" Sherlock asked, dark eyes brimming with annoyance. He sniffed, full of dramatics. Mycroft idly wondered if the boy would grow to be an actor with that attitude. "It was a rather embarrassing way to confirm my amateur stature."

"I thought I was rather kind, Sherly," Mycroft mused, propping his feet up on the footstool and smirking at his younger brother.

Furious blinking. "Excuse me?"

"I said, I thought I was rather kind," he returned, moving his hand towards the paper once more. "After all, I have _so_ many more stories I could have told him. Many, many more stories about experiments gone wrong that can be told to the detective or the inspector should you _ever_ pull a stunt like this again before you reach your majority."

He didn't see the red flush crawling over Sherlock's face, but instead he ducked behind his paper and chuckled lightly as the boy strode away, fuming under his breath.


	4. Bishop Meets King

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

Idea: Conversation between key players of the game of shadows…

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><p>Dr. Watson had completed another round of tedious patient care, hobbling along painfully towards home. Home being, of course, Cavendish Place, not a certain apartment with a certain mad detective with certain machinations…machinations around a certain professor…<p>

"Excuse me, sir, are you Doctor Watson?" A gentle touch on his shoulder prevented him from going any further.

Looking up, John scrutinized the man who had stopped him. It was a tall, unimposing fellow, with a trimmed beard and mustache, and a small gap between his top teeth. Indicative, in superstitious circles, of the person in question of being less than honorable, a small voice murmured in the back of his brain. A top hat obscured his hair, his suit hidden in the folds of a cape. On his way either to or from the opera, it seemed. He did not appear to be dodgy, but John had learned long ago that looks were incredibly deceiving.

Realizing he'd let the silence go on for too long, Watson cleared his throat in embarrassment and replied, "I am. And you?"

A grin stretched across the thin lips of the man. "A person who is of great interest to our mutual…acquaintance."

The good doctor was immediately suspicious, raising an eyebrow at the words. "Great interest, you say?"

"Indeed." A hand was extended. "I have been waiting to meet you in person for some time now, Doctor, and now seemed as good a time as any."

They shook hands, but Watson couldn't shake the sense of deep foreboding that was lain across his shoulders in that moment. Mutual acquaintance…wanting to meet for awhile…

"I see. Might I inquire as to your name, sir?" Gauntlet thrown down, time to see if he would pick it up. "It's entirely possible that one of my acquaintances may have mentioned you, and I would so like to put a name to the face."

Crinkles at the corners of the man's eyes, gauntlet picked up in amusement. "Certainly. James Moriarty, Professor at Cambridge University. I am utterly certain your friend has mentioned me."

It had not been a difficult search for answers after the Blackwood Case, John had learned. Professor James Moriarty was a published author and brilliant mathematician, revered teacher and friend of some of the most powerful men in the British government. He was hardly somebody that would blend into the background…cheerfully, that is. Holmes had divulged this information in the few meetings they had between his work and the wedding preparations. Such a man was hardly a suspect…that was the brilliance of it all. Still, there was the dead policeman in the sewers to consider, not to mention the mysterious thefts and deaths that seemed be to left in the man's wake.

Watson attempted to grin, but instead it came out as a grimace. "Pleasure, sir. You say you have wanted to meet me before…for how long, I wonder?"

Moriarty blinked, tilting his head to the left. "Oh, since I became aware of your closeness to our mutual friend."

'_Mutual "friend", my arse,'_ John thought crudely. Aloud he spoke, "I see. Well, I can understand that you have some place to be. Good to meet you in the flesh, Professor. Enjoy your evening."

As he moved to walk away, Moriarty's hand pressed hard into his shoulder. Preempted from leaving, Watson glared openly as the man moved closer to whisper in his ear. Private conversations on an open street…not overly clever, but quite effective. Oblique references aside, that is.

"I have deigned to warn you personally, Doctor Watson. The web I am weaving is not for the light of heart, our friend has considered this. However, he, and by extension you, are not aware of the lengths I am willing to go to complete my web of operations. Mr. Holmes has inadvertently included you in my dealings whether you want it or not. He and I are kings on the board, with valuable pieces to be played. If you do not remove yourself from the board, I will not hesitate to strike against you as well."

Moriarty drew back, scanning the deep scowl that had appeared on Watson's lips.

"More is at stake than you realize, Doctor." His hand squeezed his shoulder tightly, punctuating the point. His gaze had darkened with threatening intent for a moment before he moved back and let his arm drop. Working towards a pleasant smile, the professor continued, "I believe your fiancée is waiting at home for you, sir. A young lady left all by her lonesome for hours on end…can be quite dangerous in a city such as this. I shudder to think of what could befall her were you ever…_indisposed_. Perhaps Mr. Holmes would be kind enough to keep her company."

John's eyes went icy, cold fury ripping through his veins. He fought for control over his emotions, fought to keep the shake in his cane hand unnoticeable. The unspoken promise of things that could happen ate away at his soul. This man may only be a professor, but he was so much more. Only Holmes would be able to prove how much more. As it were, Watson knew he had to be careful where he treaded from now on. As he got his bodily reactions under tight rein, he answered Moriarty with a biting smirk of his own.

"I think, sir, that I understand everything perfectly. Good evening," he dismissed the professor, the underlying realization in his look perfectly readable.

"Until another day, Bishop," Moriarty inclined his head, tapping the brim of his hat before departing. The well-dressed terrorist simply walked away, blending into the streets so well that after a few moments Watson could no longer see him. Questions popped into his mind, but he knew that they would be unanswered for a long while. Allowing a shudder to wrack his body, John could only ponder the implications of what had transpired, and what, in God's name, he could do within his power on the chessboard of this terrible game.

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><p><strong>AN:** I have been on a "Game of Shadows" kick...I think because I enjoyed the plot, and the theme of chess and the characters representing pieces in the game. I used to play chess a lot when I was younger (not well), and the game has stuck with me for years, and to have it reinforced with some of my favorite literary/film characters has really garnered a lot of my attention.


	5. Holes in the Wall

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** Here's a bit of explanation for this particular idea. In my previous works, _Blood Bond_ and _His Home_, the plots involve Holmes eventually getting married to an OC, Madeline, and having children. This a short scene between Sherlock and his daughter, just a snippet of domestic life. If you would rather not read about Holmes with children or being married, then just skip over this one and hang tight until the next prompt/idea, which will be up most likely in a few days.

Idea: Questions of a child for her father.

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><p>The little girl ambles into her father's study area, tugging hesitantly on his trouser leg. A question has been on her mind for some time now, and she would like a straight answer. Her mama just clicks her tongue and shakes her head whenever she asks, and finally she's been told to ask her father. So she hangs back as Tony and Mama go downstairs to meet with the new French tutor. She is desperately curious, but even at her age she knows interrupting her father's examinations was something she should not do. She can't help it, though; she's four years old, and she wants to understand.<p>

"Papa?"

Her father stiffens, his head slowly turning away from the files before him to look down on the tiny female. His demeanor is calm, but she notices a slight twinge of annoyance fluttering across his irises.

"…Yes?"

She points across the room, to the wall opposite the doorway into the flat.

"Why is there a 'VR' in holes on the wall? What happened?"

He blinks; he was not entirely expecting this question, at least not for some time. "…Well…"

"Was someone angry at the wall?"

"Not exactly, child."

"Looks like they were angry."

"…Not so much angry as unoccupied."

"Un…un…what?"

He sighs. "Bored, daughter, the person who did that was bored."

"Oh."

The father turns back to his desk, reviewing his work. He thinks the matter is settled.

It isn't. "Bored…what does that mean?"

The father stiffens again, thinking how to temper his speech so the young one will understand. "'Bored' comes from 'boredom', and by definition is the state of being weary and restless through lack of interest."

Off the girl's confused gaze, he tries again. "It is a feeling people have when they have time and very little to do to occupy it. Or when there is something being discussed that is not of interest to other people."

"Is that what you feel when Uncle John talks about cricket while you work on your chem-try?"

A snort is stifled unsuccessfully. "Chemistry, darling, and yes, sometimes."

"Oh…Why, Papa?"

He clamps his mouth shut on an exasperated groan; he's not going to get any work done if this line of questioning persists. "Why, what?"

She scratches her head, as if she is deeply considering the matter. And as far as anyone can tell, she probably is. "Why was the person who did that bored? Were there no toys to play with?"

He actually thinks about it for a split second before shaking the notion off. Guns are not technically toys…"No, dear, it had nothing to with that."

The little one frowns, attempting to look as put out as she feels. "Papa, you're not being very helpful right now."

The eerie resemblance between the upset girl and her mother's furious face strikes a chord with her father. Back and forth, he ponders whether to tell his daughter the entire truth. After all, what could it hurt? They keep the firearms hidden now, and she will not stop asking him until he confesses what had transpired years ago.

"Isabel, I shot the wall when I did not have any work to do. You know how your mother always tells you and your brother to stay out of these rooms after I finish a case?"

A nod is the response. "Yes. She always says it's because you get very sad when you have solved it, because you can't do anything with it anymore."

He smirks. "Melancholy, I guarantee your mother said. In truth, I do become…well, sad…but mostly I grow very bored. So I start to work on other projects to pass the time. The holes in the wall happened to be part of a new project: I was working on a device to silence gunfire. I tested it on the wall."

She gasps, thoroughly scandalized. "And Mama _knew_?"

"Your mother was not here when I did that. Uncle John was, though."

"He never told us about that!"

"It's something he likes to forget about ever happening," an older female voice calls out. His eyes flick from Isabel to the doorway; though he has been occupied with answering the girl's questions, it does not escape his notice that his wife has come back upstairs and has been listening in for awhile. She comes into the room, stooping a little to take Isabel's hand. "It's something we'd all like to forget, but Papa won't let me even hang a portrait over it."

"Deny me that small token of patriotism, and I will find another place in this house for it," he counters, raising a single eyebrow. Turning his attention back on his daughter, he says, "Have I answered your questions sufficiently, child?"

She does not totally understand the word, but nods anyway.

"Good. Now, go with Mother. I wager your tutor's demeanor has not improved, with a bumpy ride over the street renovations and now a late pupil to take to task."

Despite the blushing, the child smiles brightly before stretching up to kiss her father's cheek. He bends to meet her and takes it silently, marveling at the course the conversation had taken.

"Thank you, Papa_._"

Then she turns and runs out the door, mother walking steadily behind and flashing a bright smile in the father's direction. At least, she smiles at him until she hears what the young one shouts to her twin brother.

"Tony, Papa shot the wall! He shot the wall, and Mama can't do anything about it!"

Holmes winces as Madeline rolls her eyes and bounds down the stairs. As he turns back to the murder case he's investigating, he wagers he's going to get quite an earful about this later…all for answering his daughter's questions.


	6. The Missing Ball

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc. _Murder by Decree_ is owned by CDFC, Highlight, Famous Players, Clark, Dupont, etc. etc. Point being, I own nothing and I seek no gain from it.

**A/N:** This one's a short one, but fun to play with. It uses a weapon from another Sherlock Holmes film, _Murder by Decree_. It's an enjoyable Holmes movie, I recommend it. :)

Idea: A missing ball…

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><p>"Where is that blasted cricket ball?" Watson asks, looking around his old rooms during a brief visit to 221B. Very few items of his have remained at the flat, but evidently, he has missed this little thing. "I swore I packed it up before I moved out, the day we went to the factory in Nine Elms, but I haven't seen it since. I remember, I was going to pack it up with my rugby ball that I never found. Do you know where it went, Holmes?"<p>

Holmes looks up from the device he's tinkering with, blinks. Cricket ball…

_He put the finishing touches on the scarf, sewing up the ends meticulously. At the end of the particularly grueling case of Blackwood, Holmes had given himself over to reading some of the books he had lying about the floor. Watson had gone away, to his new home, and since he had some time to wait on Moriarty's next move, he chose to pass some of the time refreshing his mind. In one quite interesting book, Sherlock had read of a sect in India that fashioned weapons with weighted ends on strings or scarves. What one would do was swing it at one's assailant, cracking him on the head or beating him soundly into submission. Given the length of the item, it could be a long or short-range weapon, and could even be used for temporary strangulation. So he set himself to work right away, grabbing the items on hand and making his own. In truth, Holmes found it to be craftier than a revolver. Easier to hide, too, since his was made from his long woolen scarf._

_His long woolen scarf now weighted with Watson's untouched cricket ball, which had rolled over to his side during the moving process. Either way, he didn't think the doctor would mind._

_Determined to give it a trial run, Holmes set up targets made from the leftover vases and china pieces Mrs. Hudson had left alone in his part of the rooms. He would wind up, swing, and easily shatter the teapot, the crystal vase, the three cups decorated with pink painted lilies. In fact, he was having a jolly old time practicing with the new weapon, and he never heard the door creaking open._

_With one spectacular release, he put a large dent in the silver platter the tea service had once sat on. And just as he was winding up for another round, a petite hand curled around his raised wrist and dug its fingernails into the exposed skin._

_Nanny had heard the racket, and worse: she had seen exactly what he'd done to her costly china._

_Without being given a chance to explain why he found the weapon a necessary bit of equipment, Mrs. Hudson had wrenched it away from him and began chasing him down the stairwell with it, getting a few sound thwacks against his back and legs before he made it to safety out the front door. Four hours later, when he'd returned from his refuge on the streets, he'd found his rooms cleaned as punishment. That, and a bill tacked to his door for services rendered. The scarf was nowhere to be found, but Holmes had smelled a great fire burning from the entryway, and had known the fate of the article before he'd seen the cheery flames crackling in the fireplace._

_The cricket ball was nowhere to be found, either._

All this flashes through his mind in under five seconds.

"No, haven't the faintest idea where it could be," Sherlock mumbles, bending over his device and twisting the screwdriver again. Perhaps he'll one day tell John of the ill-fated cricket ball's end, when the good doctor's revolver is not secreted on his person and within his reach. Hopefully, he'll never find out about the rugby ball either; that would be an unmitigated disaster of a conversation…


	7. Afternoon Walk

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** So my spring semester started this week…let me just say, this semester could kill me. Thank God I have Holmes and this fandom to take breaks in, otherwise I'd go crazy. Whew…anyway, enjoy this drabble!

Idea: A late afternoon walk…

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><p>The house was just too stifling, just too empty when John wasn't home. There were some things to do, but it all seemed banal to Mary. Ordering flowers, doing some stitching, organizing books (secretly reading the journals of his adventures with Mr. Holmes, so invigorating!), it was all becoming so…boring. Given that little Charlie and his mother were aware of her engagement, her duties as a governess were cut in half. Three days a week of work until her wedding day, and then she would be let go for good. It was so tedious being in the house all by her lonesome for hours on end.<p>

So, on one particularly slow afternoon, Mary decided to take a walk. She just wandered with hardly any purpose, up one street and then down another. She only turned back a few times when she encountered men working on the underground or when the roads were too clogged with traffic. She smiled as people passed her by, she watched hansoms and broughams trundle past with their passengers. London, according to some, was a huge, crumbling mess of a city, but she loved being there. Always had, and always would.

"You know, I find it to be quite dangerous for a woman to be wandering the streets of London alone," a familiar voice murmured into her ear, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin. Pivoting on her heel, her eyes were greeted with a strange sight indeed.

It was a man, with spectacles slipping down his pointy nose, with bushy blonde eyebrows and hair sticking several inches off his scalp. Muttonchops and a mustache the exact color of his hair line his face and lip, and his dull brown suit was offset by a bright blue bowtie. Most stunning of all were his engorged top teeth which jutted precariously over his lower lip and jaw. To the untrained eye, he was just another unfortunate homely man on some errand. But Mary knew better; she could see the memorable dark eyes that constantly scanned the world around them, judging everyone and everything that came into the path.

"Sherlock Holmes," she breathed, her lips tightening into a polite smile. Though they had been making a little progress towards getting along, she couldn't say with all honesty that they were even close to being friends. And they never met without John in attendance to referee the sparring matches that became of their polite conversations. It was interesting, to say the least, to see him in full disguise again.

He smiled, quite a feat with those fake teeth of his. "It would be wise if you would not refer to me by my proper name. I'm at work, as it were. I thought of going straight home to analyze some data, but seeing you walking blindly about the streets at this time, well, it would be remiss of me to let you go around unwatched and unprotected."

She blinked, and cleared her throat. "Certainly…er, Bertram."

An eyebrow snapped up at the nom de plume, but he accepted it nonetheless. A minute shrug on her part was the only answer to that.

"It is kind of you to take me into consideration while you're…eh, busy, I suppose, but I assure you I am quite capable of taking care of myself," she said, turning to continue her walk. "Good day."

"Indeed it is a good day," Holmes remarked, immediately falling into step with her. Without prompting or permission, he took her hand and pressed it into the crook of his elbow. She breathed heavily through her nose; it was true that she was filled with ennui at home, but she wagered it would've been better to have stayed there than suffer an awkward journey with Sherlock. He leaned in close to whisper in her ear, "I have just returned from some reconnaissance work to study Moriarty, and I would rather not be discovered at this point in the venture. I ask only to accompany you for a short time."

She shot him a surprised glance. "Truly, you think you're being followed?"

He quibbled verbally for a moment before providing a solid answer. "I am unsure of that, but I do not want to put either of us at risk at the moment."

"Thank you for having a care."

"Watson would be furious to find us both assaulted…more so you, if it happened to be a byproduct of my work. I do what I can."

An unbidden laugh floated out of her mouth. A month ago, she would've scowled and left him behind, but now, she was getting used to his disenchanting nature. She didn't expect anything more or less of Holmes, but the one thing she could count on was his brand of honesty.

"Very well, then. If you are insistent on this, then would you be so kind as to escort me home, _Bertram_?"

"If that is your desire, Miss Morstan," Sherlock answered, guiding her around a couple that had come to a standstill on the sidewalk. They ambled about for some time, not say anything really. He couldn't tell her about his work because the investigation was ongoing, and Mary knew he would hate hearing about the wedding preparations. One time she'd made the mistake about talking about the church where the ceremony would take place, and he went off on a tangent that ended up revealing the vicar's affinity for gambling and entertaining young postulates after vespers. Never again, she thought. But the silence in between the street noises was becoming a little more unbearable with each step.

Suddenly, a silly question popped into her head and flew out her mouth before she could stop herself.

"What were you like as a child? It's hard to imagine you other than as you are now."

What shocked her most was not that she asked her question out loud. It was that he answered her back.

"In a word, according to my mother…destructive." He grimaced at that. "One grandfather clock taken apart and I was labeled henceforth. I found myself rather exemplary, considering the other boys broke things with abandon. I dismantled objects to understand how they worked, to put them back together again."

She spent a brief moment imagining a miniature Holmes standing amidst the wreckage of some costly item, his big brown eyes wide and bewildered as to what he'd really done wrong. Mary enjoyed the image, and thought that another silly question wouldn't hurt, so long as they weren't arguing about something insipid.

"Uh…sir, did you always want to be a detective? I know some boys dream of the military or of being famous in some way, but did you ever want to be something else?"

Leading her across the street, he told her, "When I was a child, I thought of becoming a barrister. Well, until I had my first encounter with chemicals at the milliner's. Then I thought about becoming a chemist. I studied chemistry when I went to university, but…I had always had more of a knack for deduction and logic. I have attempted to solve the most difficult puzzles ever since I turned six years old. So no, I did not start out wanting to be what I am."

"Were you so very much different then?" she wondered, her grip on his arm tightening just a fraction.

"I was innocent back then. Nothing is permanent; everyone learns that when they grow up," he responded. She nodded, but let the quiet stretch out for some time. Her bright eyes scanned his face, and then a smirk graced her lips.

"Well, you certainly look different now than you probably did as a boy," she quipped, her gaze lingering on the jutting teeth purposefully. A suppressed grin tightened over those teeth, and she laughed again, much louder than before. "No one would give you a second look and think you were the world's best detective."

"World's best detective…you do flatter me, madam," he scoffed, wanting nothing more than for the disguise to be shed and to be at home himself. The rest of the walk back to Cavendish Place was pleasant, the two behaving as if they had been good companions all their lives. Appearances, Holmes told her, were everything when it came to hiding in plain sight. Soon enough, he brought her to the steps of the house, the trip brought to its natural stopping point with both of them safe and unharmed.

For a long moment, they both stood there, just looking at each other. Mary Morstan had done something nearly impossible to her imagination: spent a lovely afternoon walking with Sherlock Holmes. A month ago, she would've denied it ever being possible, but she had been happily surprised. And for all intents and purposes, Holmes didn't seem to have minded the encounter himself…too much.

She would've been lying to herself to even consider that he would not be bothered by waiting so long to get home, but at least he seemed to be trying. A little.

"Well, thank you for a lovely repast," she said, moving up the stairs to her door. He grumbled his reply, but she took it well enough. Her hand paused on the doorknob, and she looked back over her shoulder. She found the man still hovering on her steps to be an insufferable, narcissistic boor…but he was still John's friend. And maybe one day, he could be her friend, too.

"Come in for dinner, Sherlock," she told him, swinging the door open and motioning inside.

He straightened his back, contemplating this act of charity. "Thank you, but I really should be-"

"I don't believe I phrased that as a request, sir. I would strongly suggest you stay for dinner," she said, turning the tables and taking his arm now. "You will always be welcome in our home. I don't know if I've ever made that clear to you."

His dark eyes locked onto her bright ones, and for once, the misaligned duo understood each other.

The poor man was shunted inside quickly, his false spectacles falling from the sharp movements. "If you insist, madam, then I will do so."

Mary pushed him up the stairs towards the spare room to change, giggling, "You're more relieved to be taking those teeth out earlier than you anticipated."

"You have no idea, Mary."


	8. Why?

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

Idea: Wondering why.

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><p>She knew that for years to come, those who would look at her situation would wonder why.<p>

Why had she divorced again? She hemmed and hawed, demurred, blaming her husband for being boring and snoring, and jealous, but she knew all these things going into the marriage. Not even she knew the full truth of the situation. And she would be damned if she ever told anyone the full truth. The wondering would continue for the rest of her life.

Why had she run out of money so fast? Well, there was a simple answer for that one. She was accustomed to a certain lifestyle now, and it was unseemly for her to even suggest going back to work. Appearances were everything to her. Appearances cost everything.

Why did she not turn away when that coach pulled up to her? It was dark, she was stranded on some backstreet, she needed to go home…and with her last few pence, she flagged down that cab to get home safely. Or so she thought.

And why, in God's name, did she not leap out to save herself when the offer was made?

Until the end of her days, writhing on the floor of that restaurant and choking to death, she asked herself that question.

She knew exactly why she had been hired. She was, after all, the only one with any links to the nonexistent heart of Sherlock Holmes. If she could get her hooks in as she had always done before, then she would be set. Set for the rest of her life, no longer chasing one political partner after another in the hopes of support. All that was required of her was that she not become attached. He had made it perfectly clear the ramifications of letting her past feelings invade where her sense of self-preservation had take over.

But she was Irene Adler. She was headstrong, over-confident, totally in control of herself…her life was her own. But her life was in danger; her lifestyle was in peril. She did not want to depend on men anymore. They were fat and stodgy and stupid, or lithe and brilliant and running away from all feeling as fast as possible. She decided, that moment, to put her faith in just one more man, to put trust into herself once more as an actress. The miasma of suspense and fear that floated around him like a cloud perfume made her stomach turn at the time, but she ignored it. He seemed like just like another one of those men, and she would deal with him well enough and then be on her way.

There was no way that she could've known that she had put her life in the hands of a third kind of man: amoral, calculating, and able to burn worlds to achieve results. She had traded one danger for another.

The first time he'd ordered a man's execution in front of her, though, she'd gotten a clue. The first time he pulled his spring-loaded weapon on her, demanding her to achieve her part of the plan or become one of the unknown deaths in the river, she became more aware. And the second he put her willingly into Blackwood's hands for slaughter, she understood the evil lot she had thrown herself into.

It was just too late to back out of the deal now. The more she failed, the more she slipped back into her feelings and let Holmes walk away with a package here and a letter there, the more she knew her employer's patience was wearing thin.

And as she sipped her tea one final time, she wondered why she didn't run when she had the chance that first meeting. When she was allowed to go, she foolishly believed that she would never have to ask herself that question again. Collapsing on the floor threw her right back into that train of thought.

Why did she agree to this? Why did she stay?

Why did she?

_Why?_

It wasn't until she was drawing her last breaths that she came up with any answer.

It was because she was Irene Adler. And it was because the target was Sherlock Holmes. And, most importantly, it was because she loved him too much to save herself.


	9. The Automobile

****Disclaimer:** **As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** Did some minute research on this chapter. Automobiles were being worked on and developed from the mid-to-late 1800's, some of them being made within a couple of years of 2009/2011 Holmes canon. I based my description of the model Holmes had in the film a little off of the Benz Viktoria model, just skewing the production dates (the vehicle was produced in 1893 widely, but they were probably working on it for awhile before that). I took a look at some of the Viktoria model photographs, and just made adjustments accordingly. They probably didn't use a Viktoria model in the film, but I'm just going with what I could find (Germany was a bit more ahead of the curve than France or Britain when it came to car making, it seems). In any case, I gleaned what I could online through Google and such. Please enjoy.

Idea: The automobile.

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><p>"Holmes…what in the world is that?"<p>

Sherlock looked up from his sewing (urban camouflage, it would revolutionize information acquisition) and let his eyebrows rise. Following the direction of Watson's pointing finger and examining the good doctor's position in the room (back window, left side, close to the glass), he knew exactly what Watson was looking at. But he wasn't about to give up the game so easily.

"What's what, old chap?" he replied, the corners of his mouth refusing to give in to the tugging of mirth. He chuckled silently as his companion rolled his eyes, before letting out a quick breath.

"What's that sitting in the back alley, on the other side of the garden wall? It's wrapped up in canvas, and it has your initials stamped on it. What is it, man, a wagon?"

The detective grinned, setting aside his project for the time being. "I shall show you exactly what it is."

Not bothering to wait, he proceeded down the stairs. He simply could not wait to show John his new toy. It would change the world, Mycroft had told him when he'd received it, and of that Sherlock was definitely certain. At the very least, it changed how he traveled from place to place.

"My good man, the Germans, the French, and the Americans have all been working on self-propelling vehicles for several years now. They are working to shift the plodding carriages out of the streets and introduce these instead. Travel will become simpler, faster, and with any luck these will get rid of the damned hell creatures called horses. My dear Watson, I present you with my personal petrol engine automobile."

Gallantly he pulled off the tarp, showing the full glory of it. It stood taller than the doctor, the roof glowing through the filtered cloudiness of the afternoon light. The body had room to seat two people in front and one poor soul comfortably in the back, lackluster cushioning enveloping the benches. Two large lamps were set on the connecting poles that ran from the roof to the front of the body. No glass or coverings were to be had in the open spaces, and only two small doors prevented the front passengers from tumbling out the sides. A wheel was positioned on the far left, along with several other cranks and levers to operate the unwieldy engine hidden by the contraption. The large rear tires eclipsed the full front tires, giving it some real height. To complete the package, a tiny horn was situated next to the wheel, and Holmes gave it a playful squeak as John continued to gape.

All in all, he was quite proud of this device. He would have to keep it around for quite some time.

"How…where…when did you get this?" Watson fumbled, taking a turn around it. Sherlock's eyes followed him, quietly enjoying the wonder on his friend's face.

"A German engineer awarded it to me about two months ago. Well, he gave it to me as payment."

The doctor poked his head into the back seat, frowning. "German engineer?"

Holmes nodded. "Ah, yes. Mycroft had required some assistance with an international...incident. Naturally he called on me to complete it."

"Care to divulge, or is it a government secret?"

The sleuth shrugged, hands tied but not quite caring. "I can only say that it involved letters, plans that involved illegal shipments of petrol, and one incredibly insufficient Member of Parliament. Legally, I am obligated to tell no more on the matter. Nevertheless, a very grateful Mr. Benz of Germany gave me a prototype of his that he has not quite perfected yet, and will not be produced until the next year or so. He called it a "geändert Viktoria" model; he said he was planning on taking out the back bench for the mass-produced automobiles."

Watson stepped away, finished with his inspection of the vehicle. "It seems…"

"Exciting?" Holmes responded, trying to gauge his compatriot's level of enthusiasm.

"…Incomplete, more like. Really quite-"

"Revolutionary?"

"-Treacherous in the design. Seems like one could fall out rather easily. How fast can it go?"

"Around ten miles per hour, I've been told. Perhaps faster if one is being reckless."

"Indeed." The doctor's lips creased into a scowl, but the light in his blue eyes was dancing. "Have you operated it already, Holmes?"

"Of course, took Mycroft on the test drive myself," Holmes told him, taking a step forward. "Rather bumpy on the backstreets of London, but it was quite thrilling."

He had seen the spark of an idea in John's eyes, but he would not comment on it. Rather, he thought to draw out the torture; it was rare to have fun at the expense of Watson anymore, and showing him this beautiful invention was the perfecting source of teasing. Purposefully, he spun on his heel, going towards the garden door.

"Well, that's what was under the sacking, old boy. Now, I must get back to my endeavors. Coming, Watson?"

He paused on the threshold of the gate, taking in the unmoving figure standing next to the vehicle and its horn. The man was almost vibrating with suppressed excitement, but all he did was clear his throat.

"In a minute, Holmes. I'll put the canvas back on it."

Sherlock nodded, and turned to go inside. He no sooner closed the back door before he started ticking down the seconds on his fingers. Precisely after he counted off "one", he heard the backfiring of the engine and the tiny honking sounds of his automobile's horn, and the echoing laughter of John Watson as he propelled the vehicle forward. Smoothly, Sherlock ran out the back door after him, barely catching up before the doctor took them onto the main streets.

Not all adventures at 221B Baker Street had to be dangerous ones…


	10. St Valentine's Day

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** Did some research on the language of flowers, or floriography. It was indeed a popular way to send certain, private messages from the sender to the sendee, and they usually were romantic messages. Some flowers had some funny meanings; I recommend taking a look at victorianbazaar . com and reading all the messages flowers gave, and how some still do carry some (red roses meaning passion or true love, which is rather obvious and still used to this day).

Again, this one features my OC, Madeline. If you don't dig that sort of thing, a new drabble will be up soon, hopefully. Last week I had no access to the Internet, so I couldn't post until now. Hence why it so very long (making up for lost time, if you will) If you don't mind at all, go ahead and enjoy! Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

Idea: St. Valentine's Day.

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><p>Madeline knew how much her husband disliked St. Valentine's Day.<p>

She personally never minded it very much. In fact, she rather liked it. As a child, she'd cut paper hearts with her brother and hanged them on the walls for her parents, when all of them were alive. At her great aunt's house, she'd exchanged gloves and ribbons hidden cleverly in cards with the old lady as she was too young to have a young man fancy her. At finishing school, she and her two best friends, Julianne and Constance, had given each other chocolate and imagined their futures with lovers (Madeline was teased, destined to become that old woman who arranged marriages but would never be married herself, and she'd laughed). And contrary to her friends' jokes, she'd been married the first time at seventeen, around the time she had begun hoping for a true sweetheart.

Simon St. James was a good husband, a good man, and she was the first to say it whenever the conversation turned to him. Despite not being in love, she always felt the closest to Simon on St. Valentine's Day. Until his own passing, she'd loved spending the time with him, getting to really know the man she was bound to by exchanging cards and talking about what their future could have been.

Her second husband, Sherlock Holmes, was an entirely different kettle of fish.

On what would've been their first St. Valentine's Day as friends, he was "dead", on the run from Moriarty's accomplices to protect her and Watson. She spent that day in utter misery, a small part of her wishing he was there while she ate her weight in chocolate and musically abused his confiscated violin. And when he'd returned last January, still as mad and clever as ever, she'd hardly given the holiday a second thought when it had rolled around. Rather…she was curled up in his bed and didn't care what day it was. She did ask him, briefly, what he'd thought of it, days later. What she got was a speech on how it was originally a holiday in the Roman calendar that would ensure fertility in the women by slapping them with animal jerky that was Christianized and warped into an unrecognizable version of what it used to be. Lacey cards, the mind boggles, he'd remarked, and then shuddered visibly.

"So…you don't like it, then?" she followed up, watching him raise an eyebrow and his knowing glance reading her intention to annoy him purposefully with that question. Swiftly and firmly he changed the subject, and they hadn't spoken of it since.

Well, they may not have spoken of it, but she couldn't stop herself from thinking about it. She'd been widowed for three years before she'd met Holmes, and did not celebrate the day of love then. She wouldn't let her recalcitrant husband stop her now. She understood his feelings about valentines and all that stuff perfectly.

He would not get her anything; that could not matter any less to her.

Madeline wanted to show her feelings for him, no matter what. It was a rare occasion indeed to catch him by surprise, and so she'd kept the pot lid tight on her plans for a few weeks now. It was a lot easier to hide with her illness, her morning vomiting causing him to keep his distance until she was well enough in the afternoons to be around him. Thank God for his vocation; if he didn't have cases to stay out for hours working on, she'd never be able to withhold the truth.

At first, she had no idea where to begin with him. The idea of giving Sherlock Holmes a valentine card at all was laughable, and he was content with what he had. He would acquire trinkets and baubles from clients in lieu of payment, but it wasn't as though they were really anything he wanted. If anything, he'd likely enjoy some viscous, poisonous compound to work with, and woe betide the Baker Street residence if he ever got more gunpowder in his hands. No, she had to think simple…and when she finally lit upon an answer, she got to work straightaway.

The gift was a special order, to be delivered by noon at 221B Baker Street. Even if Sherlock was home then, he was in the middle of a murder case and would merely store the knowledge of the gift away until after he was finished with his work. Having pried open the lovely case it came in herself, she admired the gift. Granted, she had no interest in such a thing herself, but she knew he would at least use it. Wrapping it in some leftover paper and a ribbon of her own, she was quite proud of herself. Something he could use…maybe this could dissuade him from touching the needle, or drinking that awful formaldehyde.

It was quite a surprise to hear him calling from the ground floor so early that evening. She went to him, describing how Mrs. Hudson was angry about the boiling teapot in the grate and how she'd dropped the monstrosity on her hem. They were banned from having the pot up there for the endurance of their lives at Baker Street, she told him, and only then noticed how unfocused his eyes had gone. He never was one for idle chatter, but Sherlock seemed to be out of sorts in his own way.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

**xXxXxXx**

It never had mattered before, this holiday. Not really.

St. Valentine's Day was a holiday for those afflicted with the drive for affection and the need for copulation, in Sherlock's mind. And no pushing and prodding by his mother in his youth had cajoled him into changing his mind. The fairer sex would not now nor ever would convince him to celebrate an insipid holiday that left the male member of the couple several pounds lighter in the wallet and the female swoony and clingy. He would never be that man. Ever.

"So…what are your plans for St. Valentine's Day, Holmes? Anything special for the missus?"

Damn and blast Watson for doing this to him.

Pointedly ignoring the question, Holmes countered with, "Do you see here, how the body was dragged away from this point towards the direction of the house? I believe we have found our original crime scene. We best get down to work, old chap."

A hand on his collar tugged him up from his crouch, forcing him to look the doctor in the eye. His delay tactics were not working and would continue to fail as long as his friend stayed on his train of thought.

"Come on, man, it's an alley. Not very likely the blood's going anywhere." The taller man winced at the smears for a moment. "Not without a flood engulfing the city to wash away those stains."

Sherlock grunted in agreement, but said no more. John, sensing that he was beginning to lose his audience again, just let the matter lie for the time being.

Moving to kneel by the wall, Holmes prepared to return to work. Spying an odd substance, white in color and the consistency of paste, he pulled a file and envelope out of his belt pack to begin scraping it up. As he bustled about, John hovered behind him, contributing an opinion here or a comment there when it was needed. Conjecturing that Lestrade needed to be called and the mystery glob to be taken home for testing, the two men made their way down the road, not speaking much. Holmes that he was free of the inane dialogue that came of the holiday.

"Holmes," he asked slowly, "have you really not considered this at all? Are you sure that she doesn't want to celebrate it. Today is the day, after all."

"We did not participate in it last year," the detective remarked. John frowned.

"As I recall, you had been supposedly dead up until the month before that St. Valentine's Day, and she was so relieved that Moriarty didn't kill you that it didn't matter as much," he riposted. "It's a year later. And you've married her. Why not consider doing something small for her? Have you never celebrated the holiday with…anyone before?"

The glance directed at him, if looks could kill as was said, would've ensured Dr. Watson as the next victim on the scene. "This conversation is over."

Ah, hit a nerve there. About bloody time. "You haven't, have you? Never once had a girl to call your own for the day."

"Can we please be professional, for God's sake?" Sherlock growled, swinging the door open without bothering to wait for one of Lestrade's lackeys to allow them in. He was getting desperate, if he was the one begging for professionalism within earshot of one of the Yard's most inept inspectors. "We are at work, Doctor, and to be discussing something so trivial is counterproductive to solving this case."

"If anything, this is helping draw it out. I would hazard a guess and say you're halfway through solving this one already."

"And that is why you must never guess."

The blue in the doctor's eyes were getting brighter with the growing mirth he was feeling.

"Just tell me how far off the mark I am then. On either count," John said, grabbing at Sherlock's elbow only to have him wiggle out of it immediately. At that moment, Lestrade appeared, and Holmes almost shrieked at him to get over to Clark Street and inspect the third alley to the left before the damned street cleaners got there. The inspector's remark on the foul mood Holmes was in went unnoticed, as he sped out the door for home. Watson, for having a permanently destroyed leg, was doing a fine job of keeping up with him, though.

"I'm sure Madeline must be planning something for you. And only an idiot would not do something for his wife on the lover's holiday. So what are you going to do for Mrs. Holmes?" he persisted, actually eager for the answer. Holmes closed his eyes so his best friend wouldn't seem him rolling them. Did he actually think that there was a hopeless romantic hidden under the layers of logic and cynicism that made up his core?

"I believe, John, that you know exactly how I feel about that day in question."

The good doctor huffed audibly. "So, nothing, then."

Holmes nodded, thinking to end the conversation quickly. "Exactly. There is so much work to be done, and little time to spend on insincere gifts and promises you didn't intend to keep the year before being called upon. She understands this."

Watson was having none of it, naturally. In fact, the look he turned on his partner turned quite nasty in that moment.

"Some people find it to be a yearly chance to remind his or her loved one how much they care. Some people would give an arm or a leg for that chance."

And instantly the air between the two men grew chilly. It had nothing to do with the February weather, Holmes knew. It had been nine months since Mary's passing, nearly to the day, and though Watson bore up as well as he could under the circumstances, he still missed her sorely. No amount of pretending could hide that from Sherlock. For the briefest moment, he felt deep guilt for inadvertently wounding his Boswell. The moments passed, with neither man saying a word. The sleuth coughed, clearing the clouds and striving for the light again.

"…I concede that you could be correct, but it changes nothing."

Acknowledging the not-quite-apology, Watson shrugged and looked away. His mind was skittering from the edge of sorrow, refusing to be consumed.

"You should at least try, Holmes. I'm not saying become like that simpering moron across the street with the cart loaded with half the confectioner's shop," the doctor murmured, hooking a thumb at the poor man in question. "But you do something. Even at this hour."

Holmes let his gaze slide past the poor fellow down the way and let it latch onto the street sign in front of him. "It will be deucedly difficult to pull together something at this point of the juncture."

John grinned. "I can guarantee you, remembering the day and doing something at all will make her happy."

Holmes continued on his path towards home, while Watson veered off in the direction of Cavendish Place. The sleuth had been correct, as always, in assuming that the venture would be complicated. He was planning, he was logic, he was willpower and a man of the mind. For over twenty years he'd refused to deal with any of the mush and folly that came with caring or love or even compassion. It wasn't his way; he never was a man to shout his heart's desires to the skies. Half the time he had no idea if he still had a heart to feel with.

But underneath the muscle and bone, he did have the beating vessel still. One that shrank and grew, as he watched its desire walk away from him, or when she insistently removed a beaker from his grasp to replace it with a cup of coffee or tea because she would not let him collapse from fifty straight hours of work with no sustenance. His heart's desire could hold him at bay with a sword point, or beckon him on with a curled finger, and in both instances her bright smile held his attention. So much about Madeline made him watch her closely, made him want to have her nearby always, for examination, for education…for letting him, on occasion, feel his heart beat again with the suppressed emotion that he had not felt for a long time before he met her. She reminded him that he was not once removed from all mankind.

That he, Sherlock Holmes, was not too much or not enough for somebody.

How could he say that, though? On a dime, his feet pivoted, and walked off the path briefly, struck with a grand idea then.

"Madeline?" he called up the stairs several hours later, hearing her movements in the upstairs rooms clip briskly towards the steps. She had not been well for some time now, and she seemed to be mostly on the mend.

"Oh, good, you're home. Mrs. Hudson was raving about…"

He didn't really listen to her, just looked her up and down. Skin healthy, but face pale from illness and thus making her small freckles stand out. Light brown hair looped into a passing resemblance to popular fashion, meaning she'd been expecting guests while he was out. Fading scent of perfume confirmed it. Tiny cuts on fingers, worked with packing paper. Dress was demure blue with burn marks on the hem. Must've tried removing the pot from the fireplace again and she'd dropped it on her dress. On the whole, typical housewife. His wife. And his entire day flashed in his mind, every detail standing out, and he was lost to the world.

**xXxXxXx**

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Madeline asked nervously, eyeing the ceiling as if she could see his weapons cabinet through it. Suddenly everything snapped back into focus, and Holmes could concentrate again. He muttered noncommittally, but simply stepped closer to her. Her smile became less brittle and much warmer; she was quite happy to have him home again. Suddenly she gasped, remembering something she'd forgotten before her descent. "I've something for you."

Her fingers slid between his, and he allowed her to lead him up the stairs to their rooms.

"It isn't much, and I know that you're not fond of this day, but I wanted to do something nice for you today, anyway," Madeline explained, slowing ever-so-slightly in her ascent to catch her breath. Before her husband could analyze her further on the impacts of her illness, she'd brought him to the door and went inside. Following close behind her, he was jumped by her pressing a lump into his hands.

It was small, squat package wrapped in plain paper and an old hair ribbon. Judging by its weight and size, he knocked off several suggestions of what it could be and arrived at what he thought was a sound conclusion. Slowly, he unlaced the square box to reveal a case with a new pipe inside, a Calabash to be exact. It was eccentric, curved with a porcelain bowl and a mahogany body. They were rumored to mellow and cool the smoke of whatever tobacco was placed in there. He'd had several pipes in the past, but never a Calabash. It would have been impractical while on the move, but this…this was one he could use while at home.

"We never did properly celebrate your birthday in January, and I thought that this would be a good gift for then and St. Valentine's Day," Madeline interjected. "I just…I thought your clay pipe looked like it was cracking, and you're a sight better when you're smoking and not on the other-"

"Thank you," he cut her off, giving her a small grin. She was destined to ramble for eternity, and there were more pressing matters to be dealt with. Hastily, he reached a hand into his trouser pocket, thrusting a handful of flora at her. "For you."

She peered at the small blossoms in his fist, taking them one by one. She seemed pleased, but a tad confused.

"Sherlock, you certainly didn't have to-"

"Do you know the language of flowers, or floriography?" he queried, pushing over her speech. "It is the system in which coded messages are sent in bouquets of flowers to express the emotions of the sender. Quite unimpressive as a system of messaging, but considering today's date…they are…sufficient."

Madeline nodded gravely, plucking a plant from the bunch that had been dried out and pressed before it reached her bunch. "Indeed. So you have knowledge of this code?"

"Passing knowledge, yes. These were leftovers from some imported bouquets, but they retain their meanings nonetheless."

She held out the first plant she'd removed. "What is this?"

He touched a finger to it. "That is teasel. Represents misanthropy, the floral manifestation of my behavior."

A chuckle escaped her. "I see. And the others?"

One by one, he named them off. Sage brought over from the Mediterranean for wisdom, scarlet zinnia imported from the American Southwest for constancy, an orchid for thoughtfulness, an orange rose for fascination. Bells of Ireland (another pressed beauty imported from Syria) were for good luck, and white heather was for protection.

"Any woman married to you would need that, eh?" she joked, with him nodding seriously. "And these last two?"

"That one, the heart's ease, means that you occupy my thoughts," he pointed to the small flower, edging closer so that he was mere inches from her. "And the final flower…"

Her breathing became uneven, her green eyes searching his face. "Yes?"

"Prim rose. I can't…I would prefer not to…function without you here."

It wasn't quite "I love you", and it wasn't a very opulent gift. Most women would've scoffed and thrown down the flowers in fury, hoping for some grandiose present to demonstrate the partner's adoration. But Madeline couldn't do that, wouldn't do that. The plants became all the more precious to her in that instant because of the messages they carried. Messages her husband was unable to say, but did have inside himself for her.

Setting the flora down, she cupped his face with both hands and drew him down for a kiss, pausing momentarily before taking the plunge.

"I would prefer not to function without you, either. Happy Valentine's Day, Sherlock."


	11. A Study in Domestic Upset

****Disclaimer:** **As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** This is another scene early in Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes' lives, back before they were the brilliant men recorded on paper and on film. Their parents are mentioned a little in my fics _Blood Bond _and _His Home_, so they have the names and the relationship described in those stories. It's not positive; in fact, this idea was a bit depressing, but I tried to give it a positive spin at the end.

So…try to enjoy it? Thanks, and review, please!

Idea: Parents arguing.

* * *

><p>The voices grew louder, and the two boys seated at the edge of the upstairs landing winced at the upward inflections. It never used to be like this; at least it never used to be this bad. The older one surmised that the arguing had only gotten worse in the past year or so, as he couldn't recall it being so audible before. Perhaps he had just never noticed before, but it was thanks to the younger one that they were paying this quarrel any mind at all.<p>

Sherlock was five, a nosey little creature who was always tampering with something or sticking his nose where it shouldn't be. Mycroft, at the mature age of twelve, certainly thought he knew better. Being cited his random acts of destruction at a young age by his mother took him down a few pegs. On the cusp of adolescence, the elder Holmes brother was becoming ever so slightly resentful of those memories resurfacing, and he quite disliked having his little brother trailing after him like a lost duckling, pestering him with questions. Their mother always insisted on his watching out for Sherly, though; he had such an inquisitive mind, it wouldn't do for him to learn from anyone other than family at this point.

Deep down, he was glad for the attention that the smaller child paid him. It wasn't like Mother and Father had much mind to pay either of them these days, anyway. And though most of the children at the schoolhouse considered Mycroft Holmes an amiable fellow, he wasn't exactly close friends with any of them. He preferred to keep himself to himself, and stuck to his ways. Sometimes, it was lonely. It was good to have someone to talk to, share ideas, to care for and protect like a real adult. Half the time, Mycroft forgot that Sherlock was only five. More often than not, he really seemed to be talking to one of his contemporaries, which was a stretch considering that he thought most of them to be sweet simpletons. Maybe he was not a contemporary then, but more of a colleague, a person on the same mental plane.

There were times, still, to remind him that he was the older child. Right now was such a time.

Sherlock had heard the shouting first as the two boys had returned from investigating around the nearby pond for insects. The brothers had planned to do a naturalist experiment in which they would examine different beetles or flies in different living situations. Going through the kitchen entry and brushing past the incredulous cook, Mycroft was ready to mount the back stairs to their rooms, when Sherlock suddenly ground to a halt on the bottom step and cocked his head to the right.

"Sherly, come on. We have to hurry, or the beetles will die," he remonstrated the little one, tugging on his dirty shirt sleeve. Sherlock shrugged him off, and pointed with his free hand towards the forward door closing them off from the rest of the house.

"It's happening again, Brother," the smaller boy crowed, his dark eyes wide in wonder. Mycroft frowned, and tilted his head in the direction of the main house. Muffled tones came into his hearing, and they did not sound pleasant in the least. The cook—Mrs. Ferris—immediately moved away from the baking she was attempting to do and circled towards them, her flour-covered countenance a shield from the door.

Mycroft would not remember much of the woman once he left childhood behind, but he would always remember her blue eyes sparkling with sadness and pity for the boys. That was something he wished he could unsee.

"Now, you Holmes boys, you better get on upstairs and out of the way. Your parents are discussing business, and it would be best for you two to go about your own business until they're finished. You work with your…"she trailed off, shuddering at the sight of the bugs in their pilfered jars, "…things, now, and don't pay them any mind for the moment."

Father's voice became clearer at that moment. "…bel! Damn your concerns!"

Sherlock flinched visibly, jerking back from the force of the fury and being deftly caught by his brother. Mrs. Ferris looked pointedly at Mycroft, all but forbidding him to comment on the scene exploding out of sight. Dutifully, the elder Holmes took his little brother by the wrist and forced him to follow up the steps. Dragging him into the nearest bedroom (thankfully his own), he pushed the smaller boy towards his desk and silently shut the door.

"Find some pencils and paper, Sherlock," Mycroft commanded, determined to see them both through this domestic disturbance.

Sherlock set down his jar on the desk by the window. "Father is angry again. What about this time, I wonder?"

"It's not our concern," Mycroft shut him down, though ever scenario went streaking through his mind.

"Can't be about the household accounts, they bickered about that three days ago. And it can't be about Father's gambling debts, they'd gotten that square last month."

Mycroft found himself nodding, following the logic. Given how intuitive both their boys were, the Holmes parents could not keep much hidden from them. The pair uncovered more than any boys their ages, and it was shocking exactly how many vices were apparent in the household. For his part, Mycroft merely agreed with the ideas his brother posited and sighed. "Sherlock, let it go. This is not the time-"

"So that leaves either the cost of hiring us a tutor over continued attendance at the local school or Mother's insistence on using travel fare for another visit to Grandmother Felton."

"…You saw the budget sheet and the letter to Alfred Cramden, next to the post from Grandmother on Mama's table, too, then."

The younger boy nodded proudly, his dark brown hair shifting into his eyes as he did so. "Indeed, as Mama was berating me for leaving my hair so untidy last night in the study."

"Well, it does need a trim. Mother does like us to look neat; look at how we have to make our own beds with military precision…which you yourself did not do this morning."

Sherlock's eyes whipped up, taken aback. "How…?"

Mycroft smiled, glad to see his distraction was working so perfectly. "You were about the garden at a far earlier hour than you would have been had you actually made your bed and cleaned your room. That, and since you're next door to me, I could hear you waking up and going about your daily routine, which was seven minutes shorter than on a day when you do make your bed."

The boy snapped his fingers in a gesture of self-irritation. How Mycroft always knew more made him slightly jealous and aggravated, but he wasn't bothered so much by it today. "So which is it, Mykie, the tutor or Grandmother? Father hates spending money that he doesn't believe needs to be spent, and he hates the Felton branch of Mama's family even more so than the Pascal side of his."

Drat, it didn't work. If only Sherlock was four again, he'd be off course then. "The only way to really know is to hear it from the source, and I don't wager on Father being keen on talking more about this at all."

The Holmes boys stared at one another for a few moments, until the youngest grew impatient.

"Well, obviously, we'll have to listen to them. The best place would be the upstairs landing of the front stairwell. We can hear them, but they won't see us. And given the direction the voices are coming from, they are in the parlor."

He was out the door at that point, with Mycroft hot on his heels and tugging his collar. "Wrong, little brother. They are in the study to the left, not the parlor to the right."

Sherlock wiggled away, continuing on his path. "Either way, we will still hear them."

And so there they were, watching the study doors below from their position and straining to catch the words beating through the wooden panels. Father was well and truly enraged, but Mother was not holding back, either; it seemed like the two of them had never really gotten on, and as the boys were creeping up in age, it was more and more obvious that the dislike was becoming hatred. The name of the would-be tutor came up immediately, and Sherlock elbowed Mycroft in the ribs, tickled pink to have guessed at one of the answers correctly. Mycroft elbowed him back sharply, shaking his head and indicating for him to keep quiet and listen.

"Mr. Cramden is quite affordable, and given how intelligent our boys are, it doesn't make sense to keep them in primary school with, with average children!" Mother squeaked. "I cannot believe how deliberately obtuse you're being, Alastair. Mycroft and Sherlock are your sons, too! You know they deserve better than what I received for an education, what you got for schooling. Can we not, for once, ignore the matter of money and do right by our boys?"

"That is not the issue, Isabel. You know that entirely too well. I have researched this Mr. Cramden when you first proposed the idea of a tutor, and I refuse to have _him_ as their teacher! I know exactly why you want him here, Izzy, and don't you _dare_ use our boys as the excuse! Yes, my sons deserve better. They deserve better than a harlot for a mother!" Father thundered back, a thumping of fist against table echoing out. Unconsciously, Mycroft slipped his hand into Sherlock's for comfort. Both of them were breathing heavily, and they were both afraid of what was really being implied behind those closed doors.

Mother, for one, found the insinuation insulting. "How dare you suggest…I have been nothing if not faithful to you for all the time we've been married, sir, and I will not sit here and-"

"D'you think I'm blind? Ignorant? Do you think me the village idiot, madam? You may have our boys fooled, but I know you much better than they." Nearly imperceptible crinkling of papers was issued then, one after the other. "Letters from your lover Cramden, and first drafts of return letters signed by your hand. This is one dated for last week. Do not for one moment think you had the wool pulled over my eyes. You forget, the servants you employ are paid for with my money. They certainly won't risk their positions just for the chance of a pretty smile and possibility from the mistress of the house."

It got very, very silent after that, with the woman's tear-laden tone croaking. "Alastair, I…you have to understand. He and I…we used to be…I love him. I loved him years ago. But my father sold me to you before he could…"

"He was and is below your class, madam. You've done better with me than with him. Do not shame me with a bald-face lie. You owe me more than that, Isabel. My boys will not be a cover for your ill-conceived affair. Go on, write the bastard if you must, but leave the children out of it. You should be thanking me for saving you from your base desires, as I did when I married you."

"Excuse me?" she flared up, all claws and wrath once more. "Thank you? For what?"

"For protecting Mycroft and Sherlock from your own stupidity. Their futures and reputations would be destroyed because your folly!" Another hand struck the table, and splintering wood informed the children that it had given in to the pressure and broke. "Do not test me further, madam! Do as you like with your own life, but keep my sons out of your business!"

"They are my sons, and I will do as I see fit for them! God knows what they'll learn from your hand!" she screamed back, the study door flying open and Isabel flying over the threshold. She was the picture of a furious woman: scowling, fierceness in her blue eyes, stomping in her steps. Swiftly, the boys drew away from the banister, pressing themselves against the far wall so as not to be discovered.

"One more step, Isabel, and I will send the boys away!"

That caused her to stumble, her mouth choking on a gasp and her red face soaking wet with tears. Sherlock clung tightly to Mycroft's hand, nearly crying out were it not for his older brother's stern look.

"What?" she asked hoarsely, hands shaking. Alastair Holmes appeared in the hall then, tall and unwavering in his demeanor. It galled Mycroft that he threatened Mother like that, that he would use them as much as she would have with her affairs. Risking a glance at Sherlock, he found his brother's face had gone pale in shock and disgust. Still, neither boy moved or even breathed as their father began to speak again.

"Unless you calm yourself and save what's left of your dignity, I will do as I promised. Mycroft will be sent to a boarding school of my choosing within the week, and Sherlock will be sent to my mother's home in Leicestershire. And _you_ will be supervised from then on whenever you would go to see them. God knows what you are teaching them while I am away, but I can assure you that if you rave about like a madwoman, you will not teach them anything else ever again. This is my house, they are my sons, and you are my wife. Remember that the next time you would like to engage in a dalliance. Mr. Cramden was not your first love, and given the way you were eyeing up the Stephens lad, I doubt he'll be the last. But do not think to usurp my place as head of the house here. Know that every move you make, everything you do, I will uncover. The very walls are watching you now, Missus Holmes. And they will keep watching you until you learn your place."

He straightened his coat, pulling his pocket watch out and checking the time.

"Damn and blast, this conversation has made me late for the meeting at the club. Dear wife, call in Anthony and have him attend to the mess in the study. Go clean yourself up as well, the boys will ask questions as to why you look so ghastly," Alastair instructed brusquely, his piece being said and moving to gather up his cloak and hat.

"And if I want them to ask?" Isabel remarked, frozen in place but still containing a bit of her defiant spark. The unnerving smile that her husband gave her would've been pulled off successfully if the annoyance in his eyes didn't show.

"Very well, then. Paint whatever picture you like for them, but I will guarantee that in no scenario will you come out the winner. Especially if they find out the whole truth, like I did."

He moved for the door, and a sudden thought caught him as he turned the handle. "You know, the silliest thought came into my mind. We could've liked each other once, if everything was different."

The dark eyes Alastair had passed onto Sherlock connected with the bright eyes Isabel had gifted to Mycroft.

"Perhaps, once. But that time is past, and we are two very different people, Mister Holmes," she replied, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbing her eyes with it. Clearing her throat, Isabel wondered, "When will you be back?"

"Late," was the answer, clipped off by the closing door. It was effort for Mother Holmes to pull herself together again, starting from the tips of her shoes to the top of her light haired head. Her body was shuddering, her person shaken by the argument. The boys could no longer see her face, but they knew she was glaring at that door. Without another word being spoken, Mycroft steered Sherlock quickly down the hall, back into his room and locking the door. When he turned back to face his brother, he could see the questions flitting across his face.

"Mycroft…why…why would he do that? Why would _she_ do that?"

He shrugged, unable to think on top of discovering the terrible truth. "I don't know."

Swallowing hard and struggling to not cry little boy's tears, Sherlock twisted his hands together.

"Brother, what can we do? What if Father does what he said he'll do?"

Since this was merely the beginning of the woes of the Holmes household, neither boy had his heart hardened yet. Both of them were shocked, and could feel the pieces of their souls fracturing under the stress of their parents' bad marriage. And so, Mycroft was still young enough and feeling enough to do what he did next.

He knelt down to his brother's level and enveloped him in a tight hug. Sherlock hugged him back as hard as he could. This defining moment would carry through for the rest of their lives, and always be a fond second in that miserable hour.

"Sherlock, we'll watch out for one another. And we'll endure. We will survive this, I promise you. If we can survive this, we can survive anything."


	12. Home Remedies

****Disclaimer:** **As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** So…it's been almost four weeks since I uploaded my last chapter. Let me tell you, things got a little crazy on my end, but I mean to keep posting from now on as much as possible. Read and enjoy this short little ficlet!

Idea: Home doctoring.

* * *

><p>"John Hamish Watson!"<p>

John doesn't respond when his name is called; rather he tends to his business. The boy in front of him has scraped his arm pretty badly from his tumble out of the tree, and so John automatically reacts to aid him. To do so he needed necessary supplies, and he wrongly assumed the ones he took wouldn't be missed. The bottle of wound cleaner works wonders, and gently wiping at the patch of broken skin stems the bloodflow enough that John can tie it up without much trouble.

It is for a good cause, he reminds himself as he tears away his own sleeve for bandaging.

"Mr. Watson, move away from Mr. Chambers at once."

He grunts, not bothering to do as he is told. After all, his job isn't finished yet. John has the knack of selective hearing when it suits him, and when he is determinedly working on a project, it becomes more obvious. He works on wrapping the homemade bandage around the arm of the afflicted, not caring what will be said next to him.

"Mr. Watson…what on Earth happened here?"

He stops, finally looking up. His fine blue eyes grow wide when he sees who the speaker is, but his voice remains strong in the reply.

"Tommy fell out of the oak tree and cut his arm. I was simply helping him bind himself up."

"John, you filched the school's supply of antiseptic! What have you to say for yourself, young man?"

The cheeky lad grins nervously, motioning towards his handiwork. "With any luck, he won't get an infection?"

The schoolmaster, Mr. Jones, frowns at his smart tongue. "Let us hope not, Mr. Watson, because as of right now I hold you responsible for this boy's condition. Your home doctoring may not be enough to keep this child well, and that will teach you not to meddle with the health of others."

He receives a cuff on the shoulder and a pat on the head, dual punishment and thanks for helping his fellow student in his time of need. John rubs at his sore shoulder, thankful that the minor slap is all he got. Swinging his bright hair out of his eyes, he observes Jones shaking his finger and telling Tommy off for climbing the old tree in the first place. He winces sympathetically at his fellow ten-year-old. He's heard stories of teachers doing far worse with canes and baskets than Mr. Jones ever does. Not only that, he's seen the wounds inflicted on friends who go to other schoolhouses in the area. The bruises and small cuts are easy to fix, but the deep gashes are a sight he's still getting used to.

Mr. Jones hauls Tommy onto his feet and starts dragging him away, only to be stopped by the child digging in his heels. The smaller boy frees his good arm from the teacher's grasp and claws inside his pocket, searching for something. Soon enough his tear-streaked face flashes a toothy smile towards his caretaker as he removes his hand and holds it out towards John.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. Here's your pay," he murmured, dropping a peppermint into his mate's grasp. It earns Tommy a thwack from the teacher for having candy on school grounds, but John cleverly enough avoids the backswing and pushes the candy into his trouser pocket. Waiting a moment, he watches as Mr. Jones calms himself down and orders the rest of the children back inside to resume lessons.

John grins to himself, capping the antiseptic bottle and bringing it back to the classroom. He fancies that maybe one day he could become a real doctor, if the pay is good enough to get him peppermints.


	13. Writer's Block

******Disclaimer:** ****As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** Time keeps slipping away from me as the semester goes on, but soon enough it will all be over, one way or another. So how about an update? Yay, new drabble. Read, review, and enjoy!

Idea: Writer's block.

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><p>His face rests against the keyboard, deep growls of irritation emitting from his throat. The keys cluster against his skin, and mash a few of the letters against the pristine page. He lays there for a moment, hands curled into fists on his lap and pressing nails grooves into his palms. It's absolutely intolerable, he muses, just insane that this should happen. Angrily he sits up again, wrenching the paper from its place and crumpling it up in sheer frustration.<p>

It's such a trial, one that he has dealt with before, but the battle never gets any easier.

A thumb hooks in his direction. "Whatever is the matter with him?"

His flatmate snorts, lowers his newspaper and allows the smoke from his pipe to swirl around as he examines the poor fellow. Another sheet is put into the typewriter, a few sentences tapped out before the page joins the growing sea of crumpled whites on the floor. The ones tacked on the walls are completed, part of the ongoing project, with new ideas juxtaposed next to them. His movements are ragged, sharp: indicative of impatience and being at the desk working too long. When he turns his head, his roommate notes the exhaustion in the creases and frantic look in his eyes. For the most part, his back is to them, but he can hear them. He just refuses to answer, instead retrieving a notebook and pencil to scratch out another outline idea.

The flatmate chuckles under his breath, grateful that he never had the horrible condition of his friend. His pamphlets are precise and coherent; it rather helped that he wrote about facts, rather than to entertain an audience looking for cheap, dime novel thrills.

Holmes nods at Watson's hunched back and turns his attention to their mutual friend.

"Writer's block. He's been at it for five hours, stuck on page twenty-three." He directs the next comment to the struggling doctor. "You about to give up scribbling your nonsense biographical input on my life? About time, old chap."

The journal leaves John's hands and smacks Holmes in the face, right before his head connects with the keyboard again. The doctor sighs, not defeated but weary from the torment.

"Shut up, Sherlock."

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><p><strong>AN 2: **I definitely know how Watson feels. Staring at a blank page, idea in mind with no idea of how to write your way there...it's like the page mocks you for not knowing how to fill it up. He'll find inspiration soon, he always does...


	14. Perseverance

********Disclaimer:** ******As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** So…I graduate in seven days. From college. How awesome is that? And now that summer is nearly upon me, I will have more time to write for fun, and so I open summer with another snippet of Holmes goodness! Read, review, and enjoy!

Idea: Perseverance.

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><p>Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I realize that I am still alive. I twitch the fingers of my left hand—index, middle, heart, pinky, thumb. My right hand stays firmly in place, applying pressure to staunch the blinding wound in my shoulder.<p>

The night has gone deadly quiet, silencing the phonograph and crushing me underneath its weight. The bricks and mortar shattered on top of me completes the job. I am anchored to this world, flattened by its adversity and tenacity.

I breathe slowly, preserving my strength. Whatever it was that collapsed the watchtower beside the office building, I do not know. Certainly, I can deduce if I choose, my brain will have already backlogged the thought, but the pain…the pain and the silence are so intense. Truly, it is all I can concentrate upon. I have endured blistering cold and burning sun, certainly I have been stabbed and even shot once. But this horrible hurt is a new sort of agony. Setting a precedent, someone attempted to destroy my mind along with my body and nearly succeeded. Were I not so determined on my goal to retrieve his red book, I would have gone mad with rage, terror, and injury.

My legs I choose to flex next, assessing that aside from bruising they are not damaged. I can feel the blood pumping through my veins, circulating through my anatomy and seeping out of my shoulder. I fear my body will go numb from the shock, and then I will slip away, unable to stop Moriarty.

Oh yes, I know he is still alive. In the silence of the night, I can hear his uneven breathing. I thoroughly believe he can hear mine as well, unless he be unconscious. We are both weakened, but not broken. He may have damaged me physically, but I have cost him time. His great war is put on hold by this confrontation. The two kings on the board have been felled; it is up to one of the bishops to get here first, to decide whether this deadly game will continue, or to kill the opponent.

I dare not open my eyes, indeed I cannot. For the first time in all my life, I do not wish to see. I do not wish to observe. I want to stay under these bricks, I want to sleep…oh dear, so tired, no rest for days…

My ears perk up as a voice calls out my name. The breath I'd been holding in for a few moments wooshes out of me, indicative of my relief. My bishop has come here first. I will live. I will go on. I will stop this madness.

Licking my chapped lips with a dry tongue, I open my mouth and croak my dear friend's name. My voice, hoarse from my screams of torment, still somehow manages to reach his hearing. The weight above me shifts, the blocks flung away, and I open my eyes. I really am still alive.

"Always nice to see you, Watson."


	15. Saying Goodbye

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** Had this idea circling around in my brain for awhile, and I wanted to work with the Holmes brood from _His Home_ as semi-adults. Read and enjoy!

Idea: Saying good-bye.

* * *

><p><span>1914<span>

"Mother, you're going to have to let go at some point," the young man quipped, causing his mother to squeeze him even tighter in her embrace. Over her shoulder, he shot a look to his father, begging him to intercede. Catching on immediately as he often did, the father gently pulled the mother back from her son. "Thank you, Father."

Sherlock Holmes nodded to his boy, now a grown man at twenty. A grown man with his grandmother's blue eyes, his grandfather's dark hair, and a noble spirit all his own. Why that noble spirit had him dashing off to war was beyond Holmes' understanding, but he reckoned this was Tony's way of finding his place in the world and committing himself to an important cause.

The boy looked ready to go and meet the enemy, smart in his khaki tunic and trousers, his revolver at his side and rifle in his hand. The pack on his back was strapped on tight, and if his mother had held on any longer, they both would've been toppled by its weight. Sherlock knew that in the breast pocket of the tunic Tony was carrying paper to write home with and pictures of the family. He could also guarantee that his son had his stash of tobacco and rolling papers shoved in there, too.

A sniffle came out, and Madeline took her son's face in both her hands. "Now you listen to me, Anthony Pascal Holmes. You come home, come home safe and sound."

Anthony, knowing better than to state the facts over performing conventional human interactions (unlike his father at times), grinned. "I will. You'll see; we'll squash Fritz."

Tony moved onto his sisters, pulling them both into a tight hug so they all shared in the moment. Though he and his twin sister Isabel were older than Marianne by three years, they'd come to think of themselves as a trio. One was rarely out without the other two, and now he was going off to war, far away to danger at the front lines. Far away from them.

"Annie, you're getting charcoal stains on my jacket," he groused in good humor, unable to really be upset with her. She choked on a sob and tried to smile as she pulled back from her brother. "You'll have to send me a sketch care of the British Army now."

"If it survives combat, perhaps I shall."

Isabel chuckled, patting them both on the back. "If anything, our fastidious brother will have one tiny sketch surrounded by a battalion of his men."

"I'm not a general, Izzy."

She winked at him. "You're a Holmes. You wait and see; they'll promote you in no time, put you behind a desk to make the orders."

He snorted. "Yes, and who wouldn't want to be hated for being in charge? With the training Dad gave me, I'm more likely to become a scout."

"Or a spy. And then you'll really be in danger," Marianne muttered in a low voice, making sure their mother wouldn't overhear her. By the quick glance her father threw her, though, she knew he'd understood what she was saying. Finally, the youngest Holmes stepped back, swiping at her moist cheeks. "Good luck, Tony."

"Thanks, Annie," he responded, turning his attention to his twin. "And you-"

"-Will assist Father and Mother while you're away. I daresay that due to her grief and his experimentation, I will have that whole house to my liking in a month." Isabel smirked, and her brother rolled his eyes.

"You'll be able to get away with murder yourself just because you're female."

"Whatever is the best advantage, I'll use it."

"You'll never get a man with that attitude."

"And you'll be getting plenty of them while fighting in Germany," she retorted, eyes brimming with unshed tears as she laughed. He chuckled lightly as well before letting the seriousness bleed through. Isabel stood back with Marianne, letting him go. "Fritz won't stand a chance."

Madeline gently grasped her daughters' arms then, taking them off to one side. "Come, girls, let's see how the Watsons are faring before they start boarding."

"No better than us. Even worse, since the doctor and Victoria are sending off both sons," Marianne interjected glumly before being pinched by Isabel. "Ouch!"

"Come, Sister, let's go say farewell to Will and Nathan. They deserve well-wishing, too."

With that, the two Holmes men were left in each other's company. Tired brown eyes stared into bright blue, both of them seeing the subconscious fear lurking in the dark.

"Dad."

"Anthony," Holmes replied automatically, his gaze shifting to the train. "Hmm, should they be carrying the firearms that close to the front?"

The son harrumphed. "Could be working against tactical norms and placing them where they wouldn't be expected. The damage would be restricted to the engine and therefore blow apart the train with only minimal damage to the human cargo at the back. Should the Germans decide to invade, that is."

"There would still be casualties."

Anthony's jaw clenched briefly. "There are always casualties in war, Father. Uncle John taught me that."

Sherlock shook his head sadly, turning his gaze to look down the platform. People of all walks of life were bidding their young men good-bye, turning out soldiers to protect their small lives. The whole situation sickened him.

"Over twenty years ago, I nearly died to afford peace between the countries of Europe. By destroying the man responsible for this revolution, I thought to delay it for much longer. I didn't realize that I would be delaying death long enough to send my son into the fray."

Silence descended upon them, with the shouts and promises of others filtering in their ears. Anthony shrugged, the weight of the pack bearing down on him, along with his father's bitter words.

"I'm still a train trip and voyage away from the war, Dad. And think of it this way: I'm going to preserve the peace you fought for. It's just that a little combat will impede me for a short time."

Sherlock blinked, and cleared his throat. "I could tell you the odds of your survival."

The younger man gave him a cheeky grin. "I could tell you the odds of yours, working with Isabel."

A finger waved in his face. "Diversion."

Shrugging his shoulders, Tony merely said, "And you're masking deep-seated emotion with fact-finding."

His father's raised eyebrow spoke for him_: Yes, and?_ The identical smirk the men shared was interrupted by the blowing whistle of the train. Tony looked at his father expectantly, conveying with his eyes that this would be the last time for months, maybe even years that they would speak. His throat was constricted, air was barely able to enter his lungs. His son, his boy, was marching straight into the maw of death and destruction. His couldn't deduce when or if it would happen, and the truth was he could do nothing to prevent what would become of his child.

He could only let him go.

Before either of them were conscious of it, father and son were locked in a tight hug, something they hadn't done since Anthony was six years of age. His father chose his embraces carefully and often reserved a handshake or clapped his son's shoulder to express his pride or emotion. All feeling he kept buried within him was pouring out into his arms as he held his child close, wishing to God he wouldn't have to let him go.

"Remember, Anthony. War is a game of chess. Never, ever let yourself be a pawn," he whispered into his ear.

"Never, Dad." A moment longer, and then his boy tore himself away, transforming back into the man he'd become. "Well…I suppose I better find Will and Nathan, then, get moving."

"Yes, move out, soldier," Sherlock waved him away, his attention back on the train again. Neither son nor father looked at one another again, and as Tony's presence faded, Holmes became aware of the familiar hobbling man leaning on the cane behind him. "Watson."

"Holmes."

The two friends shared a glance and a curt nod of greeting, both of them observing the young faces pressed against the glass windows and the hands waving as the smoking beast began pulling out of the station.

"I thought we had prevented this war; we merely delayed it."

"No," Watson contradicted him, searching out his boys in the hustle and bustle and waving good-bye to them. "We slowed it down, and those boys are going to finish what we started."


	16. In Another Life

Disclaimer: As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** This prompt came directly from a scene from the first Sherlock Holmes film. Read, and enjoy; it was quite a bit of fun to write.

Prompt: _"You know, in another life, you would've made an excellent criminal."_  
><em>"Yes, and you, sir, an excellent policeman."<em>

* * *

><p>Inspector Lestrade paced the floorboards of his office, stewing over the latest letter left by whom the newspapers were calling "the Ghost". He'd been plaguing all the classes alike for months now, stealing anything from soap to cyanide, pocketing pearls and lapel pins. However, the thief was so clever that the only clues he left behind were scratched keyholes, shaken victims, and little petty notes left in the location of the stolen object.<p>

The police force of London had tangled on and off with the man, who had now included assault on officers to his ever-growing list of criminal activities. The Ghost would only tangle with the force; Inspector Lestrade, though, he avoided like the plague. The moment that particular officer would be sent for, he'd vanish into the night, slipping down back alleys and hiding until the next time. This signaled to the inspector that the man had some intelligence, as he was known on the force for his brilliance and his eye for detail. If the Ghost allowed himself to be seen, even swathed in cloth from head to toe, Lestrade would be able to deduce much from him.

The last note was a taunt: _My dear inspector, have a care while watching for me, for I am watching you. I see everything, I know everything. It is my curse, and your burden. Do not get in my way._

The snide little notes and letters rang a note of fear throughout Scotland Yard; after all, Jack the Ripper had done the same thing in recent months. Some even suspected that the Ghost and Jack were the same man, thinking he had grown bored with larceny and decided to delve into the world of homicide. Examining the evidence showed that none of the Ripper letters' handwriting bore any similarity to the Ghost's, and so the police breathed a sigh of relief.

The inspector's brain kept combing over the facts. The letters of the Ghost were often cryptic clues alluding to the next crime, which meant that everything he did was premeditated. The man would know the ins and outs of the job, be it an office building, a warehouse, or even a shack by the river. The few times his victims encountered him, he came armed with either a blunt instrument (often a riding crop, sometimes a revolver). That showed he expected the unexpected, and planned ahead in case there was the potential of being stopped. And Lestrade was getting better and better, deciphering notes at record speeds now and nearly catching the Ghost in traps he thought were airtight. The previous engagement he had with the villain, he knew of only one escape, through a trapdoor in a nearby playhouse, and the Ghost had taken it. Someone had leaked the information, or he was clever enough to know all the details and rub it in Lestrade's face.

Interviewed policemen, Clarke in particular, had been in a few scraps with the man, fending off the trained officers with a combination of boxing and a sort of special martial art. One man claimed the assailant named it bartitsu, which was an ancient Japanese fighting style, before knocking him out cold with a cane. The Ghost, therefore, was a world traveler, and because he was able to travel to the Far East he was obviously somebody with the means to do so. Either he was a sailor, a merchant, or an aristocrat. Granted, that did not significantly narrow the playing field, but the educated tone and the words used in the refined handwriting of the notes made Lestrade suspect an upper class male.

"Upper class, either self-made or of the minor gentry, educated, traveler, experienced fighter," he recited to himself, sitting down again. He'd been keeping an eye upon the leading men in the Empire, secreted lists from the Secret Service of the comings and goings of every single one. Lord Brantley had returned from China three weeks ago, but aside from a small scandal in which his groom and his second daughter were involved, the man was not in any way a suspect. It was hard to be, when the fellow was in his sixties. No, his officers described to him a man of vigor and strength. He could be placed anywhere in age from eighteen to forty, respectively; given the amount of forethought and education of the Ghost, Lestrade was more inclined to believe he was between late twenties to late thirties. It was a prime window of opportunity. He was young enough to spring up with an uncurbed amount of energy and resilience, and yet old enough to think one step ahead of every situation.

And therein lies his weakness, Lestrade mused. He had to be one step ahead, he had to think five steps ahead, truth be told. The Ghost needed to know, needed to understand, needed to examine every detail to come out the victor. Perhaps that was something to be played upon…

A light knocking drew his attention away from his files. Clarke opened the door and poked his head in, his face apologetic.

"A Mister Holmes is here to see you, sir."

Lestrade's eyes scanned the list of suspects before him, knowing he had seen the name there. There he was, right after his brother Mycroft and right before a distant cousin of a successful railroad tycoon. His gut tightened, and he nodded permission for the man to enter.

The first thing Lestrade noted about Mister Holmes was the confidence he exuded by merely walking into the room. His movements were controlled, and yet languid. His steps were measured, his hands clasped behind his back to prevent them from swaying. His clothing was clean, well-made even, though the cuffs of his shirt were unbuttoned and he lacked a waistcoat. His jacket was wide open, no ascot or tie at his throat, these things giving credence to the rumors about this man's lack of concern for maintenance of appearance. His unshaven face and wild hair confirmed it. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners, signaling his amusement; he did not miss the examination performed in the brief five seconds he'd been in Lestrade's office.

The inspector had heard little about the man himself, but some facts did stick out. He was educated at Oxford, excelling in boxing and chemistry. He'd gone on a world tour with his brother Mycroft several years ago after they'd both inherited their fortunes from their father. Upon their return, Mycroft chose a career in politics, while the younger Holmes, Sherlock, chose to take up the family business selling musical instruments. If one desired an expertly crafted violin or pianoforte, you could do no better than a Holmes instrument, so it was said. He lived quietly, loved puzzles and parlor games, and on occasion was said to perform various chemical experiments in his back rooms. He was slightly misanthropic, but generally was a well-liked man despite that fact. He was quiet, reserved, a man living his life as just another part of the living organism of London.

However, this part was far too suspicious to be left alone, and so Lestrade had begun to keep an extra eye upon him. The officer eyed him warily as he sat down, uninvited.

"Good day, Inspector. I hope you do not mind the intrusion."

"You presume that I have the time for this…visit, given your lack of propriety."

Holmes chuckled, shrugging his shoulders. "An acquaintance of mine informed me that you are conducted an ongoing investigation of 'the Ghost', and that should your name be upon the suspect list, you must clear yourself straight away. Especially if you wish to go out of the country."

Lestrade did not relax, rather he grew more agitated. "Your acquaintance is well-informed, indeed."

"Well, he is in the Secret Service, sir. He has written up the list for you; he wanted me to be able to clear myself," Holmes said, raising an eyebrow. "And I have a desire to venture to the Continent, expanding the business as it were."

Lestrade blinked. A man in the Secret Service, leaking this information to a civilian? Just what was the imbecile thinking, doing that? He pressed his lips together firmly, stewing over the betrayal. He had put his career in danger, just to let an acquaintance know he was on…

The list. The list he wrote based only on dossiers sent over to him. The list that no one else had seen. His list was unknown even to his top officers. And yet, this Holmes fellow knew about it.

His eyes flew up to meet Holmes', and he noticed the younger man's lips stretch into a grin. Slowly, discreetly, Holmes rose from his chair, circling around to his side of the desk. Lestrade glanced at his door, his suspicions proving accurate as he saw the lock had been bolted to prevent him from escaping.

"You see, sir, I do not want an international police force dogging my steps over a mere…technicality. I have much to do, much to accomplish, and if it means getting you out of my way, then so be it," Sherlock confided, leaning against the back of Lestrade's chair. The inspector huffed indignantly.

"It would be unwise to commit murder in the center of police headquarters, but I don't have to tell you that," Lestrade posed, setting his hands flat upon his desk.

"Very good, very smart of you, Lestrade. I must say, you're quite a bit brighter than you look. Which really isn't saying much."

The inspector looked over his shoulder. "And yet I've almost caught you four times in the recent past. What does that say of your intelligence?"

The man ground his teeth in irritation. "It says that you should be on guard, Inspector, since I knew what you were planning each and every time. Do you not find it curious that I would slip up so often when I was previously able to disappear without a trace? Did it not cross your mind that I had a purpose?"

Lestrade's eyes widened. "You couldn't have wanted to be caught."

"No, no, don't be deliberately stupid. No, I wanted to keep you interested," Holmes confessed quietly. "All of this is a game, old chap, a game designed to keep you and I on our toes. For what is light without dark, or good versus evil? Short of a murderer, I've been the most interesting case you've had in years, and frankly this is the most thrilling pursuit I've been part of in such a long time."

Sherlock backed away, opening the window to let in a fresh breeze. Because it was London, the breeze stank of smoke and passing carriages, but the violin maker-turned-criminal inhaled deeply anyway.

"I could arrest you right now, Holmes. You've given me enough evidence to put you away," Lestrade murmured, standing up to face him.

Holmes chuckled darkly. "You have your word against mine, which is admittedly an advantage, but not much of one. You see, you have not a drop of physical evidence to place me at any of the scenes, I've personally seen to that. You'll find I have an alibi for each and every act committed. My landlady, Mrs. Hudson, can attest to every time and date that I was at home, working on an violin, or tuning her piano, or out procuring chemicals. And if she can corroborate my story, what are you left with? You could keep accusing me, but your superiors would see it as a man reaching the end of his rope, desperate to find a solution to an annoying problem that has been hounding him to the point of madness. Your reputation would certainly suffer from rashly arresting a popular politician's brother with nothing tying him to the crimes."

"And what of matching samples of your handwriting to these notes?"

Holmes glanced at his hands. "I am notably right-handed, while the letters are done by someone left-handed. And nobody has ever seen me write with my left hand."

He curled the appendage's fingers around a discarded pen, taking a blank sheet of paper and signing his name perfectly upon it with a flourish. Then he signed his name again with his right hand, the differences between each hand vast enough that the signatures did not look like they had been scrawled by the same man. Holding it up to show the inspector, he sighed as he pocketed the page after a few moments.

"The beauty of being ambidextrous and nobody knowing it is that I can pretend otherwise, and there I've stumped you again, sir. Your word will be against my actions which inevitably prove the contrary. I'll make you look like a fool, and you cannot do anything about that."

Lestrade was shaking with suppressed rage. "You're a despicable crook."

"Whereas you, sir, are a fine officer of the law. You've made things lively for me, you're a great player indeed. But now I must depart. I have people to see, items to procure, and I just wanted you to be aware of it. Worry not, though, I'll be back in time for Christmas, good sir, and I will perhaps call upon you again," Holmes said, crossing to the door and silently turning the lock again. "And don't bother calling for Mister Clarke, I've seen to it that he has been called away to break up a domestic dispute before I arrived."

Lestrade was shocked, utterly shocked, and he couldn't help what he said next. "You know, Mister Holmes, with your analysis and cleverness, you would've made a damn excellent detective."

Sherlock Holmes' dark eyes danced with glee. "But if I were the detective, what good would you be as an inspector next to my brilliance?"

With that said, he slipped out the door, tracking down the corridor silently and disappearing into the night. He was a fantastic criminal, and now he had showed his hand. Lestrade bent over his papers again, determined that the next time they would meet, he could confidently put Holmes in handcuffs.

And possibly wipe the damned smirk off his face with a solid punch to the jaw. That would merely be an added perk.


	17. Exploring

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

Prompt: Attempting to write for a character one is not familiar with.

* * *

><p>A creature, always on the move, always hovering in the shadows, must sometimes surface close to the light. It's why she sneaks into Paris, attempts to blend in with the people not of her camp. In truth, she enjoys merely watching them, moving among them and mimicking their postures. As a young girl, she would often stray as close as she dared before her brother would pull her back home, back to the safety of the clan. She was born on the city's edges, and as much as the camp moves, she forever feels the pull of Paris. It is the appeal of residing so close to a culture she half shared, speaking a common language but having no understanding of what they were saying. When they can identify her, they speak the language of brutality and contempt. When she moves among them now, secreted in their midst, she finds it is never her as a person they despise. It is anything they find out of the ordinary.<p>

She finds them much like animals exhibited in the circus: on display, a daily parade and spectacle of the familiar that ends with them returning to their cages and bound by strictures not of their making. Long ago, she learned that to be safe, one stayed with the clan, but then again, she always had a bold spirit. It's why she learned knife-throwing when she was seven. She is already set apart from the common folk, so why not set herself even more apart? Learn the throwing, learn the cards, become a spectacle in her own right, and make a penny or two off the rich toffs while not being relegated to a cage every night.

Today, she mingles with the patrons of the cafés, glides down the streets in her somber dress, and thinks about how much she has lost, though she has no gilded cage. Her brother is dead, a poison so fast that even the good doctor could not help him. And Mr. Holmes…he completed his duty. He too will never see the light of day again, another soul free of the cage of life.

She bites her lip, letting her head droop so the borrowed lady's hat would provide her with cover as she waltzes past an officer. He pays her no attention, assumes she's just part of the rabble. She has papers now, falsified but adequate, provided courtesy of Mr. Holmes so she could leave with Watson unmolested from the peace summit. She hadn't been looked twice at that time either, convincing everyone around her of a lie.

London is cold, bitter, smoky, and she is glad she to have left as quickly as possible. Paris is altogether more appealing. Though the tower is a blot upon the landscape since the Fair, it somehow defines the city. It is iron-willed, unrepenting, unapologetic, gradually accepting something it once despised.

Her gaze travels away from the ground, drawn up the hill to stare on Montmarte, a bohemian center of color and vivacity just beyond the city of spectacle. In all her years, she's never been there, for though it is populated by outcasts like her, there was just no drive to see it. Something about it is too similar to her own life; she has seen greater things on this Earth, having a few streets of what she experienced everyday is not interesting. But today, this overcast day after so much death and unhappiness, she feels that she could use Montmarte to its full advantage. It would be nice to just not think, but to just see and feel and hear again.

She cannot see everything, but then again, she's never been burdened with that ability.

No one asked any questions of her, said nothing of her ordering a drink midday at a bistro just a few streets beyond the Moulin Rouge. As long as they receive payment (and her camp is none the wiser upon the deal anyway), it doesn't matter who patronizes the place. Her eyes shift from the glass in her hand to the souls wandering by, souls who only days before were in danger of losing everything. Girls and boys, young men and women pour out onto the streets. One fellow strolls by with an easel and canvas strapped to his back, determined to make it to the top of the hill to paint. She smiles to herself as she sips her drink; her brother, at least the young boy she grew up with, would have found all of this amusing. Perhaps they could've lived here, could've settled. No, he would've have told her that settling is not the way to live, although this is quite thrilling indeed. It's beginning of the world opening up to their kind, he would have thought, before rushing headlong towards death in pursuit of his ideals.

Mr. Holmes would enjoy this, too, she muses.

He never struck her as being one of the many. No, he was like her, she could tell when he began to ply her trade and spotted the assassin at the cabaret hall that one night. He was cut of another cloth, not Romani but definitely not of the norm. She toasts her drink towards the sky, thanking the powers that be that he was a man who understood all, was a man head and shoulders above the rabble, a man not confined to a secluded spot but able to embrace everything he saw. His talent at least saved others' lives, if not her brother's. Or his.

Two men, a younger gentleman and his companion with a fiddle, appear on the corner. He sets down his cap, the fiddler drops a battered case, and they launch into an impromptu performance. A crowd gathers, and like them she stands up from her table and pushes into the mass. The music is lovely, causing multiple people to sway in time. Though the boy sings of the Moulin and its windmill wings sheltering him and his lover, she cannot look away from the violinist. He arches the bow expertly, but the movement is restricted. Beneath his curly beard his lips curl in pain, and his hooded eyelids droop as he labors through the notes. He plays beautifully, but his dark eyes are laced with bitterness, soreness.

He glances at her, shoots her a wink that seems more like a spasm of the eye. His shrewd gaze tears through her, and Simza gasps, understanding much more than she did a moment ago.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I realized I have not yet written for the characters of Simza, Moran, or her brother. Well, I decided to at least give one of those a try. Simza was underutilized in the second film, which is sad because she strikes me as a very interesting person. Oh well, hope I did her some justice with this piece!


	18. Captain of 221B

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** Continuing with the idea of writing for a lesser known/underappreciated character…

Idea: Writing for a lesser-known character.

* * *

><p>She was the daughter of a naval officer. In her childhood, she was drilled to make the beds, clean the floors, and wipe the windows clear under the precise eye of her father. Every minute stitch in her hoop, every turn of the spoon in her soup, she did with absolute precision. She had no choice, and in truth, she never wished it to be any other way. All she knew of her world was that God was to be feared, Papa made the rules, and that everything in the home was to be in perfect condition. As the degenerative illness that claimed her mother's soul wore on, she assumed more and more chores, soon enough running the house on her own and giving Mother time to make the pretty embroidery she excelled at.<p>

No matter what ridiculous, overly detailed request was put forth to her, Margaret Sherman did as she was told and did it well. Every officer must run a tight ship, her father had said many times when he was home on leave, and for woman, her home was her ship. Best to get used to the idea, he told her, and so tell her mother to give her a good thwack if the laundry was not folded in the military precision he preferred. Then he would grin cheekily, knowing his wife never had the heart or the strength to discipline Margaret. No, a cross look and a "Your father would be disappointed in you" was sufficient.

"Margaret Martha, you've got this house ship-shape. See that it remains that way," Papa Sherman would murmur to her whenever his work called him away again. And so Margaret did as she was told.

Well, most of the time she did. She may have been able to stitch a perfectly straight line or get any stain out of the carpets, but she could turn an oath faster than any man on her block in London. She thanked her mother's Scottish roots for giving her the haughty demeanor and the colorful epithets to make it along the rough and ready streets of the capital city so they could survive without her father for months at a time. Once, a lad of the clan Ferguson had come down, crossing her path as she went to obtain vegetables to make her exactly measured soup. Her mum's clan and his had thought to pair the children, but Mother thought differently. The old woman wanted her to be married to a nice, English boy who could provide for her, not a Scottish despot with seemingly no future. Though her blood was Scottish, Mrs. Sherman did not want her daughter to grow up and live that way. Margaret was English, and she would stay that way. No matter if she passed on her language, her pride, Margaret was always meant to be like her father, not her mother.

The lad came for her anyway, charmed by the idea of possibly getting a half-breed who knew English propriety and could be forced into the servitude of marriage. Angus, he was called, with mussed brown hair and muddy eyes, and he waited for her to come out. She nodded coldly when he presented himself, freezing him with the glint in her suspicious eyes. As he attempted to present his family's suit, her hand gripped her basket handled tightly, the wicker strands breaking slightly. Then she took a few steps forward, moving down the street to get away from him. He whistled, he called at her, his brogue charming but his leer ridiculously off-putting. Gathering her skirts, Margaret walked faster, ignoring his eyes that burned her with their heat. His dogged steps echoed behind her, trailing her as she skirted mud puddles and weaved in between other passersby to get to the green grocer.

"Aye, you boggin boot! Ahmno numpty that you can blaze by!"

Her blood ran cold, but her face was flushed with fury. Slowly, Margaret pivoted on her heel, staring down the lad. He may have capped six feet and she was no more than seven inches shorter, but her glass blue eyes and untamed blonde hair made her appear intimidating. With a hardworking Scottish mother who only had the energy to talk, she had learned her fair share of Scottish slang, and to be called ugly and dirty in the same sentence was infuriating. Baring her teeth in a highly improper snarl, she advanced on the boy, jabbing her finger into his chest and making him back up.

"Am'no bairn to boss around, you git! Get yer erse out of here, you fud, or ye'll lose yer toaty bawbag faster than you can scream about it," she threatened, taking a stance that would have been advantageous to a shot to his family jewels. He stood and stared. This was no English rose, no docile toy to keep in the background; she was a Scot deep down, with the gall to take a stand. He liked her pride, her fight, but was left instead with some very sore parts when she took the opportune moment and did as she promised.

Naturally, Ferguson chose to withdraw his suit after that.

Margaret had a will of iron that she would only bend for those she loved. As time wore on, she tamed her words, kept herself under the restrictive corset of propriety and became what her mother wanted. But she was no lass to be tamed, for long, by no man. Her husband Roger learned this well, and called her mule-headed and half-cocked until the day he died.

"Maggie, darling, it's impossible to make a bed with me still in it."

"Then I highly suggest you remove yourself at once, dear. This is my battle and I will turn it to my advantage. So out of the bed, now!"

"Stubborn Scotchwoman…" he'd mutter, always with a hidden smile.

But those were his terms of endearment, and he was always pleased to have the beds turned down and a perfect cup of tea waiting for him. Their tenants did, too; renting their home in desperation one year when the extreme costs of funerals for her father and mother emptied their accounts brought them in droves. All types came and went through Margaret's doors, but they all received the same treatment: the stoic, ever-watchful eye of the landlady as she brought up tea and straightened up the books and blankets lying about before making a wonderful dinner in her tidy kitchen.

And Margaret, in her stoic, biting way, cared for each and every one of them. Even when they were nasty to her, called her "Nanny", bit her head off for trying to pick up a newspaper, or half-killed the dog. She just went on, making her tea, but with a twisting word or a biting remark to remind the tenant who really ran the house.

Mrs. Hudson was the daughter of a naval officer, her home is her ship, and she will have it in ship-shape, no matter if a mad detective thinks he's in control. Deep down, Holmes knows who the captain of 221B Baker Street is.

* * *

><p><strong>AN 2:** I admit it, when I was writing Angus Ferguson, I was picturing Craig Ferguson as a young man…made myself laugh!


	19. Double Encryption

Disclaimer: As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** Just picked up a copy of _Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows_ this past week…exciting! Got me motivated to write another snippet for you all. Enjoy!

Idea: Double encryption.

* * *

><p>It was Mycroft who thought of the idea first. It was becoming harder and harder for him to send letters home without Father reading them though they were intended for Sherlock, and it was impossible for Sherlock to tell him what was going on at home. So he suggested an idea for telegrams: save up pocket money, send a telegram every week or so, and use a code that no one but they would understand. It was all rather simple, really. They would wrap the truth in lies, mirror it in their words, and Father would be none the wiser.<p>

**xXxXxXx**

_To: MYCROFT HOLMES_  
><em>Things are peaceful here STOP Father holding temper STOP Mother going about her business as usual STOP I am not looking for a reply STOP Doing well without you here STOP<em>

**xXxXxXx**

He may not have been wise to their game, or perhaps he didn't care to elaborate on what his sons were transcribing to each other. But Mycroft understood, and though his emotions were beaten into submission years ago, he could still feel his heart shrivel whenever he got a telegram from his brother.

**xXxXxXx**

_To: SHERLOCK HOLMES_  
><em>Do not bother me with such small matters STOP Very busy at school STOP Too busy for you STOP Do not watch Mother and Father so closely STOP Keep in mind visiting Grandmama not an option STOP<em>

**xXxXxXx**

In the household, they were forced to be perfectly behaved gentlemen, without an unkind word to say to anyone. Sherlock, unfortunately, had an honest streak in him that never failed to have him smacked by their father or chastised by Mother. Mycroft figured that the telegrams would teach him the art of deception, of learning how to get a message across without using blatant terms.

It was a shame he had to learn that lesson at all.

**xXxXxXx**

_To: MYKIE HOLMES_  
><em>Father intent on keeping me home STOP Not looking for a particular boarding school STOP He certainly has no high opinion of Scotland STOP Mother stops him STOP<em>

_To: SHERLY HOLMES_  
><em>I have no input on Father's decisions STOP Never would dissuade him in any way STOP Cannot suggest a place nearer home STOP<em>

**xXxXxXx**

Year in, year out, they sent their telegrams, life taking turns at levying shots at the Holmes brothers. Still, the messages were what got them through half the time.

**xXxXxXx**

_To: MYCROFT HOLMES_  
><em>Boarding school brillaint STOP Making new friends STOP Never alone STOP<em>

_To: SHERLOCK HOLMES_  
><em>Government is supremely interesting STOP Bothered constantly by Parliament members STOP Cannot arrange a visit soon too busy STOP<em>

**xXxXxXx**

Eventually, the messages changed as they did, and though they saw each other less and less, Sherlock and Mycroft were sure to fire off a message once a week. And they weren't always encrypted; only the important ones were.

**xXxXxXx**

_To: SHERLOCK HOLMES_  
><em>Posting bail money straightaway STOP Should arrive soon STOP The damages to the house must be steep STOP<em>

_To: MYCROFT HOLMES_  
><em>You have no idea STOP Much appreciated STOP Will be home at Christmastide STOP<em>

**xXxXxXx**

A cipher was never needed to crack the true message behind every word they posted. Telegrams that began as lifelines for one another turned into something more: the advance of their brotherly affection.

**xXxXxXx**

_To: SHERLY_  
><em>Do not care when you come back STOP Do not miss you at all STOP<em>

_To: MYKIE_  
><em>Not eager to come home at all STOP Do not miss you either STOP<em>


	20. Revolution

Disclaimer: As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** I am just saying upfront, I know little to nothing about Gypsy customs/lifestyles. What I do know about it, I gleaned my information from some sources including "My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding" and even from _Phantom _by Susan Kay. I do think I understand some facts including the early marriages, the distrust between the Gypsy/"country folk" communities, and that women are guarded vestal virgins until they are married and spend their lives taking care of the home aspects of the caravan. That's what I understand. If I'm wrong, or offend somebody with this, I'm sorry.

Idea: Revolution.

* * *

><p><span>Summer, 1879<span>

Not for the first time in her life, Simza was afraid.

Fear was a common feeling in the camp. A raid by police was a common one, as well as fights breaking out amongst of the families of the clan. But those were irritants, typical fears that the gypsies had grown up with. She was usually able to hide it, though, as strength was an attractive quality in Gypsy girls.

Strict moral codes and a shortened life expectancy had really brought her to this moment, not romance and fairy tales about a knight in shining armor. She'd read those fanciful tales when her father brought back some books one time from _gorgios_, the country folk. Most were in French, some were in English, but all of them were her companions when she wasn't busy cleaning or caring for her siblings. In any case, they told of young men daring life and limb to rescue the damsel and make her his bride. Simza, looking at her own parents' marriage, understood that not all men fought for their women. And not all women had the choice to fall in love. Still, the idea of having choice in falling in love appealed to her as an adolescent girl.

She didn't realize how quickly she would learn that those books and ideas were mere fantasies. Now, in a day's time, she would be cleaning and caring another person entirely: her future husband. She was chosen as a bride, the first daughter of her family to be roped into the sacred institution. She would leave her family's caravan and follow the husband's until death did they part. Most fifteen-year-old girls in the camp would have been thrilled to have a crack at marriage; Simza was not one of them.

Her mother stooped to pick up a decorative rose that had fallen from its perch in Simza's hair. She chattered on about the glorious wedding her daughter was making on the morrow, about how fine the intended husband was. Albert was the son of one of the camp leaders, the one who specialized in selling their dried peaches to the country folk in Paris and other cities in France. Dear little Simza, with her brunette hair and penetrating eyes, had caught the boy's attention only a few short months ago. He grabbed her, wanted her for a kiss, which she vehemently swore she never gave him. It was his word against hers, and as a male (more man-child than anything else), he was believed. He would force her to be respectable, force her into the servitude of wifedom. When Albert told her they were to be married, her parents answered in delight for her. Their eldest girl, already secured for matrimony, what a blessing!

And Simza was terrified of that indentured servitude. As the hours drew nearer to her blessed nuptials, she felt horror seep into her bones. A small part of her brain, the one steeped in her people's values, chided her for being so weak of heart. She was like any other Gypsy girl, and Gypsy girls had to have families to care for, loved ones to look after. Yet the rest of her screamed back about the injustice of it, that being wrestled into marriage was not how it was supposed to be. Not for her, no. She didn't want to be at a husband's beck and call, and especially not for a husband who had lied his way into securing a girl for his bed.

Oh yes, she knew what he really wanted out of her. Leering and loose comments he dropped around her when her parents were out of earshot made it all too clear what he was after. The fact that he could get a wife out of the deal seemed to sweeten the pot, as it were. He was nearly twenty-one; he wasn't getting any younger. Albert was eager to have loads of sons with his cleft chin and shaggy blonde hair, all of them tall and strong to make him proud.

Simza's insides churned at the thought of consummating the marriage with the boy. Before she lost her temper (and her dinner), she made excuses to her mother to escape for a breath of fresh air. The tent blended into the shadows as she ventured out into the twilight-lit fields beyond the cover of the trees. Out here, she could see the stars, feel the space in the air. She was free, free from caring for her younger siblings, free to pretend that she was merely Simza, herself alone. Stretching her hand up towards the sky, she played at covering the stars and connecting them to make her own pictures and constellations. Her finger drew a lady's skirt, swishing in her eternal dance of delight. Simza liked to dance, liked the fluidity of movement and the constant state of shifting.

A foot stumbled in the grass behind her, and before she could be startled by the intrusion on her peace, her brother's sweet voice greeted her ears.

"Sim, you know you aren't allowed to be out her alone. Too dangerous," Rene scolded lightly, and she could imagine the smile that was on his face as he used her nickname. She didn't turn around, only let her hand drop to her side.

"Says the boy who disappears into the city for days at a time."

He huffed, pretending hurt. "Man, missy, I am a man."

"Being eighteen does not mean one is a man, Rene," she volleyed back, her tone dull. Sim did want to look at him, did want to have a normal conversation, but her eyes were riveted to the stars. Hunching her shoulders against a brief wind gust, she continued, "You are, perhaps, more of a man than some."

Rene came closer to her, looking where she did but not seeing anything. "You really don't care for him, do you?"

Tears threatened to spill out of her eyes, but Sim was determined never to cry about her state. "Tomorrow he will own me, body and soul. How can I love such a man? Any virgin bride would suit him fine, but he wants to break me, I can tell. I'm a challenge, a challenge he wants to overcome and destroy. I tell you now, Rene, I never wanted this marriage, I never wanted him, and anyone who says differently is either blind or a liar."

She leaned heavily against her brother's shoulder, her gaze lost on the ground now. Rene curled his arm around her, letting her share her grief for once without fear of repercussions. He wanted to be happy for her, like their mother, or cynical enough to accept the situation like their father.

"Sim," he murmured suddenly, unsure of why he was speaking, "have you heard about the underground movements in Paris?"

She stiffened slightly. "No, I have not."

"A fellow I know there, Ravache, is planning on constructing groups to protest the injustices of the government. I intend to be there on the morrow as a captain of the organization. He wants the rights of the Commune back for the people, and he spoke of obtaining rights for our clan as well. I will miss your wedding, but I wanted you to at least understand why."

He pulled away from her, peering in the direction of her face. The campfires of the families did not stretch to them, but he felt as though he could see the intrigue in her eyes. He gripped her shoulders, determined to tell her more; in the end, he was being a protective brother, wanting to save his sister from destruction.

"The movement needs able-bodied soldiers, stalwart followers with wills of iron. And it's not just men he needs. Stout-hearted women are needed, too. Women who understand the injustice of the world against them, who need to fight for the freedom of choice."

Papa would kill him for doing what he was doing in the city, and would horribly dismember him for plying Simza with these secret ideas. Her breath hitched when he mentioned the women of the movement, how the feminine touch was needed to strengthen the group.

"I will be on the road at dawn. I may not be back for weeks, possibly months."

"Maybe even…years?" she said quietly, taking all of the information in. Foolishly, he nodded in the dark, and then affirmed the point verbally after realizing his mistake. "Papa won't let you return easily, then, after you've thrown your lot in with _gorgios_."

"No, I will have to stay away for a long time. But remember, I am fighting for our family, our clan. I am fighting for you, Sister."

With that he turned back towards camp, silently slinking back through the grasses to greet the future in-laws. Simza was left shaking, staring into the black night for a good many moments before she found the courage to return to the caravan.

**xXxXxXx**

Rene saddled one of the ponies left to roam in the makeshift pasture, his two packs of belongings balanced on the back. The sun was beginning to peak over the horizon, heralding a cloudless day for his travels. The familiarity, the love of the clan, nearly caused him to forget leaving entirely, but hearing his sister's distress told him he had to fight for their rights. Someone needed to hear the Gypsy voice, and he was determined it would be him doing the talking. Mounting the horse, he galloped east, taking the half-hidden switchbacks that would give him easy access into Paris.

"Rene!"

He swung hard in the saddle, nearly falling off the horse when he recognized Simza's voice. She was riding astride a black stallion, packs strapped precariously behind her as the horse thundered toward him in a hard gallop. She held on tight and fast, only slowing down she neared her brother. Rene raised his eyebrows at her, saying nothing. Blushing, she swallowed against the rising dust on the trail.

"If Ravache wants women who understand the need for freedom, then he need only look to a Gypsy woman. And if it's any Gypsy woman, it had better be me."

The look Rene shot her spoke volumes. It made her think of the dishonor she had dealt their family, the wounds she had inflicted upon the clan, and the fury she would invoke upon her own head when her intended learned of what she had done. She shrugged at her brother.

"It will be for them that we fight for, and I want our sisters to have a fairer lot than what I was given."

Rene nodded, cantering forward to show her the way into the great French capital, not protesting against Simza's proclamation or will. Ravache called for a revolution, and Simza was determined to have it, for herself if for no one else.


	21. Independence Day

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** I believe this one is pretty self-explanatory…happy Fourth of July!

Idea: Independence Day.

* * *

><p>It was no little thing, independence. It was something her ancestors had fought and died for. An Adler had been at the frontline of service for his country since the first war, the war that tore them away from British occupation and rule. Great-great Grandfather John was a drummer, nine years of age when he enlisted (lied and said he was twelve, clever bastard, and with his above-average height, they took him at his word). Though not a full soldier, he'd done his time and was rewarded with a bullet through the wrist. It was worth it, he claimed, to face down the British oppressors and drum the Continental troops into their noble fight.<p>

An Adler cousin put in his time for the War of 1812, and was killed in the fray, but he was willing to do anything to keep the nation secure for the American people once and for all. Another Adler cousin had gone out West, determined to carve a niche of his own into the great lands across the Mississippi. What he got was a land battle with the Indian counterparts, a people who insisted the land was to be shared, was theirs in essence by right. Irene, deep down, appreciated their sentiment, and only wished that Cousin Robert had heeded their warnings. He was killed in the crossfire, Americans troops wanting to stamp down the conflict and the Indians retaliating to keep their lands and ways. He didn't want to fight, but he was incensed to war. His strong sense of willpower and determination to win had cost him his life.

Then came the Civil War. Her grandfather and her father enlisted for the North, both still of an age to move and fight with ease. The country was split, and they wanted to see it brought together again, not least of all to ensure freedom for all people in the States. Those two men were ready to defend the nation until the last drop of Adler blood soaked into the ground. And the bloodbath of the States' War that followed their enlistment managed to lap up quite a bit. Grandpa never returned, sacrificed in the hot summer heat to Gettysburg as part of the 12th Regiment of Volunteers. She'd heard a fellow soldier at the monument dedication four years ago swear Old Adler's blood had splattered across the barn as the enemy fired upon them, and he wouldn't go down until he managed to bayonet one of the Southern men. Her father was just shy of death when the leaders met to end the conflict, rallying his strength for another five years to to teach his girls the cost of freedom before meeting his end in 1869. At the tender age of nine, Irene saw her die at home from the ravages of war, long after the battle was over. She was the last of five daughters, the end of the direct Adler line, and the end of the bloody fighting.

Though she'd never been in a war, Irene understood the costs and products that conflict could bring. It had cost her a father, a grandfather, and further conflicts would destroy male cousins and brothers-in-law. But she could, deep down, accept the gesture for what it was. Adler forefathers had laid down lives and livelihoods to bear arms and protect a country entering its childhood. They wanted the freedom of choice, the freedom to determine how they lived, how they prayed, how loudly they spoke about their rights and how freely they gave themselves to a cause.

And here she was, a lifetime of choices later, given to a cause that could lead to war. On the outside, she was calm, looking almost bored as she sipped her tea and enduring the prattle of a power-hungry oppressor.

"The package should arrive via post at the address on the card tomorrow. Pick it up and leave it at the second address below."

"Tomorrow's Independence Day." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. The glassy look in her employer's eyes shifted to one of brief bemusement.

"Yes…I suppose it is, in America anyway. Naturally, the British do not celebrate it," he responded, determined to ignore the outburst. She set her cup back upon the saucer, the chink of china echoing like a cannon shot through the dining hall.

"The British don't, sir, but as an American," she slid back her chair and rose in defiance of his glare, "I do."

They stared one another down, entering into a battlefield they've both fought on before. A minute ticked by on the clock on the opposite wall as Moriarty leaned back in his chair, refusing to give into propriety and stand with the lady before him.

"Very well, then. Have your American holiday. But you will do this task before the week is out."

She controlled her sigh of relief, merely dipping her head to acknowledge his forfeit. He smoothly removed his red booklet, marking a tally on a page and returning it to his pocket before she could see what it was for.

"Now get out, before I change my mind."

Mutely she retrieved the address card from the table and moved away, taking careful, hesitant steps to the front door and nearly crying in joy to reach the street alive.

It is no small thing, independence, and it is no small thing to claim it, even for a precious moment of time.

* * *

><p><strong>AN 2:** Man, I have just been dedicating my time to the ladies of the world of Sherlock Holmes. And why not? They may not be the main characters, but each one of the gals serve their purpose and deserve some appreciation. Yay girls!


	22. Say Cheese

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

Idea: Taking pictures.

* * *

><p>It had started innocently enough. The curious little boy watched from the corner as the photographer arrived with his equipment. In fascination, he observed the accouterments that made up the camera be locked into place, cleaned off. The smell of the chemicals of the glass plates permeated the air, the tripod looking like a creature of myth. Sherlock had never seen the monstrous creation before, had seen some tintypes on the mantel in the house, but in truth thought nothing of them. He began to ask the photographer questions as the maids bustled about to set up the parlor. He wanted to know the intricacies of the machine, had been given permission to look under the cloth hood and see the pieces set right by the gentleman. It was fascinating, and for a brief second considered begging Mother for a camera of his own.<p>

But then the nightmare began, when Father snatched him by the arm and hauled him upstairs, shouting for the servants to make him presentable. Six pairs of hands descended upon him, and for the first time in his life he felt trapped, confused. He could not work out who was all in the room, they overwhelmed Sherlock so. Combs ripped through his hair, the dark unruly mass tamed down with a grease that burned his sensitive nostrils with its stink. His body was tugged left and right, smart trousers trapping his legs and dress shirt with a too-frilly collar. Hands tugged the articles down and around, stifling him and choking him. The waistcoat was bright blue, bringing some color to the soot colored suit once the jacket had been wrestled into place. He wanted to cry, wanted to shower abuse upon his abusers as a cold rag swept over his face and rubbed hard at his cheeks. In the looking glass, he caught a glimpse of himself. A miniature version of his father stared back at him, except his cheeks were burning red and his nose was too sharp to be Papa's.

Another pair of hands scooped up the six-year-old, pulling him back down the stairs and shunting him into a chair brought from the dining room. Mycroft, owning his thirteen years, looked gawky and awkward in his position behind his mother's chair. He had also been forced to put on his best suit for the occasion, but Mama's heavy powder bleached his face in an attempt to hide his pimples. A sharp look cast in his direction cut off Sherlock's giggles, coupled by a firm hand clamping down on his shoulder.

"Now boy, be still and silent. This will take some time, and if you move so much as an inch the photographer has to start the process all over again," his father decreed, removing his hand after a single shake to keep his youngest son in check. Throwing a distressed look to his brother, Sherlock only got a shrug of commiseration from Mycroft before the elder boy set his lips in a grim line and faced forward. Perhaps if he behaved, the process would go by quickly, and he could ask the photographer about the chemicals he used for developing the pictures. He grinned brightly and waited.

And waited. And waited. For all the tinkering going on beneath the hood, it seemed as though nothing was happening. Sherlock's lips drooped more and more, turning into a deep scowl as the minutes wore on. He was young, he wanted to play, to explore; he couldn't be expected to sit still for as long as the session appeared to be taking. But every time he shifted in his chair just to alleviate some part of his body, Father would hiss and force his back to go ramrod straight.

Early afternoon shifted to evening by the time the photographs were taken, and he had been put into a few more positions for several different prints. Each time was worse than the last, as maids scrubbed his face and his eyes grew heavier with unshed tears of boredom.

He quite hated the photographer when he finally told him he could go up to his room and change.

"Never again," he promised himself as he tore at his collar.

**xXxXxXx**

"Say cheese!"

The flashbulb went off, precisely at the moment he covered his face. John and Lestrade weren't able to cover their faces, and he theorized that it didn't matter to them. It was almost a necessary obligation for crime investigation now, and in many respects it was good for the business. Having picture evidence of a crime scene worked much better for the force rather than having to commit everything to memory and hoping that the record was straight. But personal pictures for the paper were another matter entirely; Holmes didn't have to humor those people, and went out of his way to thwart them whenever he could. When the photograph was published alongside the story about him nabbing Blackwood, Sherlock smirked to himself. His elbow looked glorious, and that was all anybody would get of him willingly.

He never did like having his picture taken.


	23. Drained

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

Idea: A moment in the boxcar in _Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows_.

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><p>He couldn't remember the last time he felt so…drained.<p>

What an appropriate word for his condition, Sherlock thought hazily. He was drained of vitality, energy, even a good amount of blood had been lost in this Godforsaken case. John scrambled around, retrieving his case that the Gypsies had managed to save and bring on the boxcar with them, his voice alternately muffled and clear in Holmes' ears. They pushed him up against the Gypsy woman, his head lolling on her shoulder as John crowed something about a piece of wood and sewing up. The detective cleared his throat, tried to unglue his tongue and teeth, but found he could not summon the energy to even speak. It would do him no good, he surmised, to waste his strength with words. They could be saved until Watson finished his task. In the meantime, he flexed his fingers as Simza tied them down to his wound using Watson's scarf as a makeshift sling.

Idly, his other hand rested against the red book in his pocket. Weeks, months of meticulous forethought and planning, hours of evidence gathering and honing his bartitsu skills, all to clash at a pivotal point with Moriarty and find the weakness in his growing empire. In a few short minutes, it was over, the notebook retrieved and his body skewered like meat in a butcher's window. Worth it? He thought so at the time, but the itching piece of shrapnel in his ankle and the hard thrumming of his heart slowing down to a dangerous level were telling him otherwise.

A needle jabbed into his skin, and he could not feel it. No pain, no agony, only the drumbeat of his heart and the low warble of Simza kept him present. His dark eyes, alternately blinking and staring, dropped in the direction of the good doctor.

Sherlock's face relaxed as he really looked at the man. He'd been through the Afghan War, got his leg damaged himself and nearly died in the process. John had encountered devious spies and foolish thugs, all while maintaining a level of compassion and calm that Holmes could never even touch. Certainly he was crafty and good, but John, in the regards of being a soldier and facing death, was so much better.

So drained, so tired.

Yes, John Watson could face death and horrifying injuries without fear. His arm and his blasted shoulder drooped, flattening against the floor as he lay prostrate, the numbness flowing up his body. Simza took his free hand and held it against his stomach, meeting her other palm as she did so. Still she sang in soothing tones, but with more of an edge in her voice. She was shaken no doubt from all the controversy and the terror that Moriarty was able to inflict, but she still had faced it, all for her brother. In his mind, he reasoned that she clung to him so at the moment was to keep him conscious, to keep him plotting the next move.

Sherlock knew he was drawing breath, could see the rise and fall of his chest, but he could no longer feel the air going in and out. Simza's warmth bled onto him, but it couldn't warm him on the inside. He was becoming as icy as people claimed him to be. Once he was proud to say he was ice in the face of danger; all he wanted now was a warm cup of coffee and the thaw of spring to shake off his internal winter.

Again he looked at John, admiring his courage to follow him, a folly-driven, half-mad sleuth into any danger. Holmes envied him for that courage, and for having at the same time an ease with the world that he never quite had.

His world had contracted to the box car, to the woman cradling him, to the other man sitting in the corner mourning the ones the lost in the forest, to John.

He wished, for a small moment, that he'd never drawn him back into this shady business. Indeed, a part of him wished he'd had the gumption to turn Watson away that first day, when they obtained the flat and embarked on the bloody first case.

It shouldn't end like this, but his mind was wandering, was numb. Sherlock was too drained to even think anymore.

Forty winks, he mused to himself, eyelids fluttering. A mere forty winks he'd take and then he'd be back at the game, not yet off the board. The world contracted again, blurring as his eyes closed, turning all to black.


	24. Playlist 2

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** Yes, I realize I have used the playlist prompt before. It's great for stretching out your mind and forcing you to think creatively on the fly, as well as good practice to get back into writing. I have been away for a little time, starting a new job and moving into a new apartment, in general sorting my life out. Also have a crappy Internet connection. So to get back into the swing of writing again, I chose to revisit this prompt. Let me know what you think of this round!

Prompt: Playlist prompt.

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><p><em>Rules:<em>

_1. Pick a character, fandom, pairing, friendship, whatever._

_2. Put your music on shuffle/random and start playing songs._

_3. For each song, write something inspired by the song related to the theme you chose earlier. No pre-planning and no writing after the song is over. No skipping songs, either._

_4. Do 10 songs and post. Be sure to include the song/artist._

(May have stretched some sections out to finish off ideas, because it's not good to be cut off mid-sentence).

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><p><strong>1. <em>Hit Me Up<em>, Gia Farrell**

It was the dance that Simza adored better than anything. It was on par with being with Rene, but he was gone from her now. She liked nothing better than having a good dinner and then joining her comrades around the fire for an impromptu expression of their bodies. She could twist and turn, lightning fast, challenging the women and entrancing the men.

It was part interest and part challenge when she led the taller Englishman out to join her that night, and also part of exorcizing her sadness and anger at Rene. How could he do that, go back to Ravache after promising to stay away! She needed to get it all out of her system, and something about the taller one drew her into a frenzied state. She whirled, galloped, stamped, and clapped. But the man met her measure for measure, enticing the others to cavort. He looked a fool, but he was a sight better than some of the others. For the first time in a long while, Simza laughed, enjoyed herself.

And for a moment, it was just him, her, and the dance.

**2._ Give Me Just One Night_, 98 Degrees**

The Woman had her eyes trained upon him, daggers out at arm's length. She raised an eyebrow, daring him to challenge her, make her step out to him. He had summoned her here, intent on calling her out on far more than her crimes.

"You existence, madam, is something that greatly intrigues me."

She smirked, taking a coy step back. "I can't imagine why, sir. I am quite a common woman."

He almost laughed at that. Common? Never.

"Why have you brought me here, Mr. Holmes? I will not easily be brought in."

"It's personal." He stepped forward, avoiding the daggers. They stood toe to toe, drinking in each other's essences. A hairbreadth from touching.

He lowered his head, lips almost brushing hers. "One night to enlighten you."

Her nodding head set them off; one night, though, would not be enough.

**3. _Carrying the Banner_, NEWSIES (1992 film)**

Higgins crawled over his close friend, Bobby, to get to the water spigot. He received a note from Mr. Holmes, telling him to try a few places to track down some information for him. He scrubbed his dirty face, wrinkling his nose at the smells of his comrades. They resided at a Boy's Home several streets over from Baker's Street, and soon enough he and his lads were on the march.

"Alright, Irregulars, we've got work to do. Remember your tricks, and if all else fails, fight for information. Master Holmes depends on us."

The boys nodded, smile dotting a few faces before they took off in all directions. They liked this work, and truth be told, so did he. It was scores better than the other jobs he'd done in the past, and it was worth it to serve a good man like Mr. Holmes. Higgins moved off on his own, dodging a pair of nuns and a cart of bread. Nicking a roll before he was noticed, he tore in the direction of the alley.

The work was difficult at times, and lately Mr. Holmes was not completely satisfied with the lack of stories and trackings. They'd gotten tips of assassinations, the works of crooked politicians, but in the heart of London, any rumor was worth note. Trouble was, something about the ones he was turning up weren't good enough.

Soon enough, he stumbled upon Lord Something-Or-Other lamenting to his fellow how tragic the death of some American steel millionaire was, and how the recent bombings in Germany were such a detriment. Higgins, grinning to himself, doubled back immediately. Finally, something that might be good for Mr. Holmes.

**4._ I Don't Care_, Fall Out Boy**

Moran rolled his cigarette, his favorite blend stinging his tongue when he clenched it between his lips. A number of his compatriots were confused at his behavior; how could he be so nonchalant about his dishonorable discharge? Those who had the courage to ask him were simply pushed aside when he walked away.

They would never understand. He had his shot, he did what he had to ensure that the enemy fell. So what if it was at point blank range after he picked off a few civilians surrounding the bastard? So what if he went out against orders to secure victory? In the end, he'd done what he had to, and now he was turned out of the army.

He smirked slightly as he lit up, taking a long drag. He didn't care, not really. If the British army would expel him this easily, and with no other reprimand, he would find his own way to improve upon the situation.

After all, a master marksman was a great thing to invest in. And apparently, one man had the sense to act upon that.

**5. _The Coolest Girl_, Bonnie Gruesen**

Mary was aware of her unpopularity with Sherlock, but she was surprised to find that Mycroft was a good deal kinder to her. It helped heal a bit of her heart that she never admitted was injured by the younger Holmes. Though she always prided herself on being independent and not letting others affect her, his words did hurt her. All she wished was that she could show him, in some twisted way, that she was worth his attentions. Mycroft was easy enough, wooed by the idea of a lady occupying his space, but how could she prove to Sherlock she was more than another girl?

A knock at the door jarred her, and the books shunted into her hands shocked her. Holmes had trusted her to decode Moriarty's booklet; he wanted her to break down his words and destroy his empire.

She grinned as she worked for hours at the notebook, cracking the code easily with Sherlock's instructions. This was her chance, and when she presented the numbers and words to Lestrade, she knew she had not spoiled it.

Here was her proof that she was worthy of John, of Sherlock's circle. She was far more than any ordinary girl.

**6._ Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again_, Emmy Rossum ( from _The Phantom of the Opera_)**

There was no grave for Rene, just a fire burning his last few possessions and some words spoken in his memory. Simza could not cry, not at that moment, and not a few months on. Her tears were spent at Reichenbach, and completely beaten down at Holmes' own memorial service in England. The detective was commemorated in London, her brother interred with all haste and secrecy in Switzerland. No loose ends for either.

Still, she thought of him. Of both of them, really. Neither had a monument in their honor, and somehow, she felt that was right. Both of these men were too full of life to be companions with carved symbols and granite angels. To be in a graveyard was not in the cards for Rene or Mr. Holmes.

On the days she thought of Rene, she sometimes wished there was a gravestone, something simple with his name marking his passing. She fought back the tears as the caravan moved for the season, leaving behind her traditional home, leaving the last traces of her family behind.

Life went on, it had to. Simza had to learn to live again, without brother, without the sweet opportunity of memories. However, she would not waste her time with tears. She only wished there was a monument for Rene.

If there was a gravestone, she would have something to say good-bye to.

**7._ I'm Moving On_, Rascal Flatts**

After a moment's numbness, he drags himself out on the rocky shore. He has done what he set out to do: destroying Moriarty and his plans, with only minor damage to himself. Mycroft's oxygen has certainly helped him out, allowing him to keep breathing after crashing into the pool below the falls. He shivers in the cold, but knows he can only rest for a moment.

He recalls that not one day ago Watson had called him a selfish bastard. Perhaps he is, or perhaps the doctor didn't mean it at all. In any case, Holmes knows in his heart that there is some method to this mad plan, and he must move on.

He cannot go home. Home is not home anymore.

The year, truly the past ten years of his life, has gone in a flash, but these past few days have shown him how much his life has altered and how his actions have hurt those around him.

He must leave this place, learn how to live life again. Maybe someday he can return to London, but he must get going. Struggling mightily, he rises to his feet, scampers quickly to retrieve his effects.

He must move on, while no one knows the truth. It's better that way. It has to be.

**8._ No Way_, Darren Criss, Lauren Lopez, Joey Richter, and Bonnie Gruesen**

"Once there was a band of brothers, striving to keep an evil wizard and his army from taking over their lands. He wanted to start a war, in the hope of profiting from the peoples' deaths. The brothers, knowing his plans and not blinded by his spells of distraction, set off on a quest to capture him and make him stop. The vile lord was crafty. He used magic spells to hinder the band of brothers, tricking them into fighting with one another and into going the wrong way. The men still cornered the lord in his castle.

"One brother was smart, though, and pretended to concede defeat. On his way out, he stole the wizard's book of spells, using it to expose him as evil and to cast his own spells of safety upon the lands. The other brother fought with courage, healing the people with more spells. The wizard was destroyed, crumbling to dust, and the brothers were hailed as heroes by all."

"Did they ever think that they could've failed, Mum?"

The mother smiled. "No way. Now, good night, child."

**9._ Haven't Met You Yet_, Michael Bublé**

Arranged marriages were common, Madeline had reconciled herself to that fact. It did surprise her how quickly her great aunt had arranged for Simon to court her and offer his hand, but her future was at least assured now. Romantic love was a notion that her aunt never considered, and Madeline would only let herself daydream about it.

Simon was still young, as was she, but she had no idea how the future would go. She liked to dream anyway about what her romantic love might've been.

Dark eyes, dark hair, intelligent, she imagined him to be. An eye for detail, he should have that. Someone who would listen to her, not just hear her words and let them fall out the other side of his head. Athletic, cunning, swift.

He would maybe sport some scruff, unkempt but not a bushy beard. Maybe he wouldn't be a stuffed shirt man, perhaps his would be untucked. She giggled, thinking how scandalized Aunt Florence would be.

He would treat her as an equal, not just a wife.

She rolled over in her bed, staring at the back of her husband's head. Who knows? Maybe she might meet this dream man one day; anything was possible.

**10._ I Won't Dance_, Frank Sinatra**

"Come on, Sherlock, just one time. I beg you, please."

He shrugged. "I have no intention on following through with this madness."

Madeline huffed. "Why ever not? Where's the harm in it? I know you can, in fact, dance."

"There is a distinct difference between 'can' and 'want', madam. You're inclined towards it, so feel free to do so."

"You've danced with me before, in front of a crowd no less. Why won't you do it now?"

He stepped forward, catching her in his arms. "Last time, my mind was otherwise occupied with a case, and I treated you as an object, almost an automaton."

She let her hands slip inappropriately around his neck, as he pulled her closer.

"Now, if I dance, I find I won't be able to concentrate. You, everything about you, will make it quite impossible to follow through."

Her gaze met his, intensifying the air. "So you won't dance?"

"No."


	25. What Can't He Do?

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** Holy crap on a cracker, Batman. I know it's been a very long time since I last updated, and I do apologize for that. I have no excuse to give you really, none that I can discuss here, but I am ready to get back into writing again. Again, I'm sorry, and I hope you'll come back around to reading this thing again.

Just to forewarn you, this drabble is about Holmes and one of his children from the Blood Bond/His Home storyline. If that's not your cup of soup, hold on, I should be writing something more geared towards Holmes and Watson in the films proper soon. If you have no issues with it, then enjoy!

Prompt: Father/daughter time.

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><p>I snicker as I trace another outline of the man, my pencil gliding across the page as I capture him. He in turn is trying to do the same, and the look in his eyes is stimulating. When we first sat down with our artist's pads, challenge to draw one another accepted, his dark eyes glowed with determination. But minutes have passed, nearly a full hour. The look has morphed into one of frustration, of muted fury. The jaw tightening as he grinds his teeth adds to the miasma of struggle. With my left hand sliding smoothly over the paper, I shadow his face appropriately, though he does considerably better as his emotions actually begin to run closer to the surface than I have ever seen in all my short life. His fingers fumble with his pencil, less at home with making a picture than writing an essay or pamphlet on the art of deduction. Often I see him grabbing a rag or eraser, trying to fix an error. A perfectionist when he chooses to be, he can't let the drawing be less than wonderful. I have learned that it takes mistakes to make one better when attempting a work of art.<p>

Papa does not handle mistakes well. He will find another way to rectify it, if the current way is fruitless.

I begin to wonder, _'Is there anything the man can't do?'_

He can discriminate the difference between London mud samples. He can and has found hidden lairs beneath shops just by tapping a cane on the ground. He knows the Latin terms for hundreds of flora and fauna. He is a master of disguise.

What can't Sherlock Holmes do?

I observe him closely as he removes the spectacles he now wears whenever he reads or must observe something up close. His smudged hand presses against his eyes after dropping the notepad and pencil down on the table, wordlessly declaring he's finished. In that moment, I can see him truly, perfectly. I see the lines that cut deeply into his face as he frowns, years of disappointment and hard work outlining his brow. His skin is weathered, indicative of the rough terrain and elements of his time spent solving the most baffling cases of his day. Silver threads prominently through his dark hair now, much more so than I had noticed before. His shoulders slump in exhaustion, but he shows no indication of actually feeling it. Father is over sixty now, but I've never been aware of his age before.

It's enough to stop my ministrations, the cold honesty settling within me. He in turn looks up, finally notices that I've paused. The pencil marks have rimmed his eyes, an absurd mask on a tired face.

"Daughter?" he asks, gaze scanning my face to discover what is wrong when I do not answer back directly. Unlike my older brother and sister, I have always been more of an open book and cannot hide what I think or feel easily. I take more after my mother in that regard, I've observed that on my own. Rising from my chair, I set the pad of paper on the table between our chairs and circle around to embrace my father. He sits stiffly for a few moments before he returns it, still uncomfortable with overtures of this kind after years of doing without them. "Marianne?"

Shaking my head, I release him, feeling much better after hugging him. I glance down at his modest effort, and try to scale back my wince. My head is too small, my nose too wide, my shoulders angled in such a way that would be more indicative of my suffering a spinal injury to achieve the position. He reaches across the table, pulls mine down for a side-by-side comparison.

"Shall we say that, instead of it being a straight challenge, that we attempted to emulate different artists' styles?"

He nods. "I shall say that Picasso has influenced me somewhat."

"Yes, certainly that seems to be the case."

He sighs, folding the ends of his spectacles over and places them in his pocket. "My mind is tailored towards more…structured…endeavors."

After sixty some years, he would definitely know better than me. "I guess there is something the great Sherlock Holmes can't do."

He raises an eyebrow at me, and I return the gesture. He gives me the look that says, "Give me time, and I can master anything."

It's a look that I can see mirrored in his distorted portrait of me.


	26. Peroxide and Crinoline

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** Did some slapdash/quick research on Victorian hair dyes and underwear for this little ficlet. Yes, they did dye their hair back then, and apparently some of it was painful…skin damaging, in fact, but that's neither here nor there. Onto the ficlet!

Prompt: Drag.

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><p>One would think that at some point, the madness of Sherlock Holmes would become mundane. On some level, at least, the idea was true. John Watson was fortitude embodied, and the only person to date that was so accepting of the sleuth's foibles that it was quickly becoming more of a fault than a virtue.<p>

Sure, he grumbled about the violin playing, yet he never stopped him from scratching the strings as dawn broke over the city. More than once, John has wrestled his clothing back to his rooms from Sherlock's, ignoring the stains and almost indeterminable alterations that came of fitting them to the detective's frame while they were "in use". John figured it was the trade-off for having such a great man as a friend and brother in arms. He could ignore it, for the good of the partnership. The added thrill of assisting Holmes and improving his own observations of the world was a benefit, to be sure.

But sometimes, the madness did break through and shake him a little.

John can't remember why he didn't knock that time. He'd always knocked before, polite and formal. Self-preservation had also been a key component to this: he could expose himself to something deadly if Holmes was not in the right frame of mind. But all was calm and quiet in the flat, and so a part of John had assumed nothing strange was going on. Perhaps something of the seven-percent-solution variety had been brought out, but for the most part, Sherlock had been silent nearly all day. A case in the form of an abducted heiress and the possibility of the involvement of the British government had presented itself, but Holmes assured the doctor he could think of a solution. Thus, John was freed from that responsibility for the time being. Seeing his patients and writing out his notes had eaten up most of his day, but he needed a moment to just breathe. All Watson wanted was a good smoke before dinner, but unfortunately he'd run low on his tobacco rations. Sure that the Persian slipper had to be running low as well, there was no harm in offering to get some for his friend, make the trip doubly worth the effort. He merely waited for some indeterminate shuffling on the other side of the partition to slow down, and so he twisted the doorknob, entering without seeing.

"Holmes, popping to the shop for tobacco. Want me to-"

Once he finally looked, finally observed, the words dried up in his throat. His eyebrows nearly leaped off his forehead and his jaw felt like it had disconnected entirely from his face. Holmes had turned sharply upon hearing the door being opened, and save for his face paling, he remained emotionless as John stared.

The room smelled strong of peroxide and ammonia, the air absolutely infused with it. Sherlock the Chemist had been let out, and he had ravaged—totally _ravaged_—his own hair. The dark locks were yellowed, beaten into submission by the ladies' hair treatment he somehow procured during the day. Even his eyebrows had been bleached to match, the skin irritation around them indicative of a too-thorough procedure. But that wasn't the end of it, oh no: long switches of blonde hair had been attached, pulled into a stylish fashion favored by women and pinned to the back of his head. His now clean-shaven face had been powdered, the barest hints of makeup accentuating his eyes and lips.

If the hair wasn't enough to gawk at, the clothing more than made up for it, John thought some time after the incident. At the moment, he was just trying to process the view. Oh dear God, the sight of a man in bustle and drawers is one that Watson would prefer to never, **ever**, have burned into his memory. It was there forever, complete with chemise clinging to a false bust and a corset clutched in his hand. A dress languished on the chair beside him, a purse and parasol poking out beneath it.

Sherlock Holmes was turning into a woman before Watson's very eyes.

John found his voice again, coughing out, "So…"

"Yes?" Holmes inclined an eyebrow, daring him to say something, anything, about his get-up. When Watson floundered again, he sighed, "Curious, I see, about a grown man choosing to dress like this. Recall what I said earlier before you flounced off to tend to your patients: what could be better to catch the criminal who was looking to benefit from the heiress' disappearance than by employing a doppelganger? It would work well enough to fool someone from a distance."

The good doctor nodded. "I thought…you were going to recommend a Miss Daldry to do so, like you mentioned right after the fact."

Sherlock swept his hands in a wide arch across his body. "She's not quite put together yet, old boy, but 'Miss Daldry' will suit her purpose just fine when she's all laced up."

John winced, cringing a little as Holmes prepared to wrap the corset around his torso.

"Right…well. I'm off to the shop, tobacco and all."

"Slipper's running low. I'll give you a fiver when you return to cover the costs," Holmes remarked, shuffling over to the door and pushing the doctor out. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

With that said, he shut the stays in the door, his harsh gasp on the other side informing John of his tightening the corset. The doctor shook his head, moving mechanically down the stairs. That was a sight he would never forget, and it wasn't helped by the fact that for months later, Sherlock would still be blonde.

**xXxXxXx**

Several years later, it would happen again. The execution of "Miss Daldry" on the train was nothing short of sloppy, slapdash, and sad. Now, sitting on the back end of the detached loo of the locomotive, John critiqued his friend's handiwork as he toted luggage from around the corner to sit beside the damaged sink. Blue eye makeup rimmed Sherlock's eyes, the black liner running down and blending into the blush. His face was ashen, stubble bleeding through the powders. Lipstick was smeared onto his chin, bits of smattered onto his teeth.

'_Thank God he's switched to wigs and didn't dye his hair,'_ Watson mused as he continued observing his friend. He couldn't help himself as the chuckles erupted from deep within.

"And what, pray tell, is so funny?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms over his chest. The doctor shook his head, but he couldn't stop himself from saying what he had first thought since the great detective had donned the lady outfit.

"Holmes…you are an _ugly _woman."

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><p><strong>AN 2:** That last line was my exact thought upon seeing Robert Downey, Jr. in drag during the movie. He's a handsome guy, don't get me wrong, but he is NOT a good-looking woman. Also, "slapdash" is becoming one of my favorite words. Just putting it out there…as well as this thought: thinking about changing my pen name. I figure after five years it might be a fun idea. Feel free to send me your thoughts with your reviews…thank you and good night!


	27. Happy Christmas

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas"—composed by Hugh Martin, lyrics by Ralph Blane. Picture whoever you like singing it (myself I will be picturing Michael Bublé). Have a happy and safe holiday season, everybody.

Prompt: Holiday/Christmas.

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><p>Two lonely people reached out to each other that night. The carolers had come and gone, the children of the neighbors had played in the streets after church services. Quiet and calm descended upon the place.<p>

For a moment, anyway.

Downstairs, in the parlor, a single light flared in the winter darkness. It bobbed from the doorway over to where the single piano was situated along the south wall. The lamp situated by it flared, lit by the candle. The owner of both candle and lamp settled on the bench. Her wary, tired fingers gently tapped the keys, a melody from within coming out. The housekeeper, a solitary woman with no family nearby for the holiday, had contented herself with the rector's messages, a decent meal she went to pains to make. A few presents from nieces and nephews had been sent, easing their own consciences and making her feel a little better about her situation.

_**Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light…From now on, our troubles will be out of sight…**_

Mrs. Hudson was spending her tenth Christmas by herself, and she had no qualms about fooling herself into thinking it was what she wanted anyway. Truly, shame kept her home, away from her well-meaning family. She'd once been the epicenter of holiday celebrations. Both sides of the clan would travel into London, games and bright candles reflecting the mirth and merriment of the people in her home. Her goose would be consumed with gusto, and she would smile on lovingly as her husband would pull little Agnes onto his lap before handing her the doll hidden from sight until that moment. And around the piano, Mrs. Hudson would chime in as her brother-in-law prompted her to deck the halls.

But the children grew, the house dimmed, and life changed. One bad winter was all it took before her home was no longer hers. She opened her home and heart to her tenants, sharing a few simpler Christmases with them. The lonely ones, the sullen ones, the hopeless ones flocked to her parlor, sometimes for nothing more than a biscuit and the promise of traditional songs. Only a few times did she and Mr. Hudson choose to leave and celebrate elsewhere, but her adopted ones she always had time for before the holiday began. She was their family, if they had none; she would show them the love of the season.

**_Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the Yuletide gay…from now on, our troubles will be miles away._**

That love had dimmed, death marred the years, and she withdrew. But tonight, as the street lamps glow and the clouds block the starlight, she looked in upon her old piano, and wished to remember those happier times. She wished for a young Christmas again.

Upstairs, another light sparked and flared, flying from one end to the other before lighting another lamp. The piano clunked on, out of tune but still poignant in the dark. The light moved down the stairs, pausing just outside the parlor doors. This owner, tenant number twelve, wanted to say something to the housekeeper, but the words died in his mouth. Instead, intense memories of his childhood Christmases surfaced as he watched her play on, oblivious to his entrance.

**_Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore…Faithful friends who are dear to us gather near to us once more._**

Presents wrapped with bright ribbons, boughs hung carefully along the walls, Father enjoying another snifter of brandy as he and Mycroft tore through the halls with their gifts. The heat of the fireplace reflected in his mother's eyes. Though the years became bitterly cold in their household, there was still enough warmth for Christmas, even after the worst row, the most terrible threats. It was the only time, up until he was twelve, that he truly felt like he had a family.

**_Through the years we all will be together, if the Fates allow…_**

He had not felt that way in years. He recognized in that moment, clearly, that perhaps he could feel that warmth again, even if only lasted for a moment. He could feel like he was with his family again, just for a song.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hudson," he murmured when she finally look over, her fingers paused and trembling on the ivories. She blinked, taken aback by this. She'd assumed he'd come to complain about something, but as she looked at his crestfallen face, she bit back the retort she had prepared.

For what Holmes recognized in her, she could see it in him, too.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

For a moment, they had a real Christmas, and they smiled.

_**Hang a shining star upon the highest bough, and have yourself a merry little Christmas now.**_


	28. Auld Lang Syne

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N:** How about that, two updates within a week of each other? It's like I've gotten back the writing groove I used to have…kind of. Real life/being an adult/having been forced to take a fiction writing course the semester prior to graduation and your beginning real life as an adult now really does take up a lot of energy and time. But yay, inspiration! Just an extra disclaimer: "Auld Lang Syne" was originally a poem written by Robert Burns and set to a traditional Scottish folk song. Wikipedia it, it's there. Granted, I only use the title of it for this drabble, but let's be honest, I was humming it while writing. You're probably humming it/thinking about it right now as well.  
>Also, this drabble contains OCs as previously featured in <em>Blood Bond <em>and _His Home_ (premiere of Victoria, whee!), so if you're not into OCs, well, then I'm sorry. Just replace Madeline with Irene and Victoria with Mary if you would rather have that imagery and those characters. Your choice. And there is gratuitous fluff involved. In any case, it shouldn't be too long until I update again (but I know better than to make concrete promises on update times nowadays). Thanks and enjoy!

Prompt: New Year's Eve/Day.

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><p>The clock on the mantel, obscured by numerous papers and accouterments begins to chime the hour. As it does so, the ladies seated in the comfy armchairs cast their gazes about the room with amusement.<p>

Mr. Holmes, choosing to actually participate in the festivities this year, is collapsed on the floor, the head of his tiger rug acting as his pillow. After caving to his children's demands to be allowed to stay up until midnight, he is exhausted from alternately entertaining them and from sneakily tippling brandy while they were busy. He has reenacted his major exploits of the past for them, playing the multiple roles of "Deducing Detective", "Grand Villain Supreme", and "Damsel-Hardly-In-Distress-At-All" (Madeline snickers at the subtle jab to Irene Adler, who is quite unable to defend herself). Sherlock has used the entirety of the rooms as his stage, and now he is grounded, vigor expelled and drink going to his head.

Dr. John Watson is no better shape than he, frankly. Having shared in the covert drinking, he unwillingly participated in the plays as well, his roles being "Bumbling Doctor" and "Reciter of the Clues" (he manages to get his own back when he twists the plots to reveal the Detective having been taking on by giants and being thrown across buildings, with him playing the giants, of course). His son, being a few years older than the Holmes children, recruits himself to play the "Inept Henchman", with him being tossed about and landing atop cushions and pillows to protect him from injury. But John's weary leg and intoxication force him to rest, his chosen pillow being one of Sherlock's shins. He makes a honking noise, giggling madly, as William curls up next to him.

All three children—Anthony, Isabel, and William—have long ago knocked out, despite their wishes to stay up late with the adults. The twins nestle into their father's arms, Tony's head on Sherlock's stomach and Isabel's ear pressed against her papa's heart.

The lady of the rooms, Madeline Holmes, rests her hand on the curvy of her belly, grinning at the sight and the indulgences her husband has allowed for their children. She can only imagine how he would welcome their third child, due within the next month or so. She and Victoria, Watson's second wife and similarly heavy with child, share a knowing glance at the chiming clock and raise their mugs of hot cocoa in a toast to one another.

There is much to look forward to, in the days to come. The year has passed, and another dawns. So much has changed, and yet, some things remain the same. But it would hardly do to wax philosophical this early in the morning. Rather, the women clink their glasses and smile.

"Happy New Year's Day, Mrs. Holmes."

"And the same to you, Missus Doctor Watson." They chuckle lightly, silently deciding to finish their drinks before rousing their families to greet the New Year.

* * *

><p><strong>AN 2:** I'm uploading now for the sake of having it be up on time, or somewhere near that. As I am over the legal age in the United States, I will definitely be imbibing and out on New Year's Eve, and won't be in remotely the right frame of mind to upload on New Year's Day. So yay for you guys! Have a SAFE and FUN New Year's!


	29. Did You Know?

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

Prompt: Did you know you look like...?

* * *

><p>The undergraduate just stared at his professor for a moment, wanting to speak his mind. However, he was unsure about how to bring up what he wished to discuss. Normally, he was not so forward, preferring to keep to his notes and not bother Professor Moriarty with nonsense. This bit of nonsense could be ignored, though. Not with such surprising similarities presented.<p>

His history book, chronicling events from the Colonies up through the last ten years, was clasped tightly in his hands. His mathematics was long forgotten as he approached his professor at the blackboard after lecture. He should have been be heading over to the dormitories to meet with his fellows before descending upon the nearest local pub for a good time, but his thoughts have been burning a hole in his concentration since he'd made his discovery.

Professor Moriarty swiped a rag over his equations, noticed the dawdling pupil hovering just beyond the lectern.

"Mister Lowell, have you a question about today's lecture?"

Lowell blinked, somehow surprised by his professor's intent opening dialogue. He managed to regain his tongue, though. "Not upon the lecture material, sir."

"Then if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare for my sabbatical abroad." It's a dismissal, one that the poor student railroaded over.

"I do have a question for you, sir, but it's not about your book or the lecture."

Moriarty grimaced momentarily before schooling his face again. His look of mild interest took hold, and his inclined head urged Mister Lowell to go on. It seemed, though, his student's quick dose of courage had faded away. This professor, known in certain circles as the Napoleon of Crime, normally did not have patience for this sort of dithering. However, he had always been a teacher before being the head of a secret criminal organization, and he would not harm this young man for simply wasting his time.

Not physically, anyway.

"Mister Lowell, if you are not going to make your inquiry, then you should be on your way. I really do not have the time-"

"Are you aware that you look like President Grant?"

Nonplussed, Moriarty furrowed his brow. "Excuse me?"

Lowell swallowed, his voice gaining strength. "President Ulysses S. Grant. You greatly resemble some of his Civil War portraits, sir, and I was merely curious if anyone had informed you of this similarity before."

His mathematics professor slowly shook his head, astonished by the track the conversation was taking.

"No," Moriarty replied quietly. "I've never been told that. Have you proof of this strange circumstance of resemblance?"

"Of course," Lowell responded, nearly leaping forward to hand over his text for perusal. Helpfully, he'd marked the pages for Professor Moriarty to observe. The book itself was not of the best quality, but the details in the miniature portraits of the passed President and general could not be mistaken. Lowell had studied the pages closely, and he knew he was right in his estimation. Same eyes, same nose shape, even the same jaw that was set in the same look of stony examination that Moriarty was giving off now.

After another minute of browsing, his professor shut the textbook, handed it back to him, and merely shrugged.

"I personally see no extraordinary similarity between our countenances, but this was an amusing sojourn to take before settling my affairs here. I will take it as a compliment that you think I resemble such a great man, even if he was an American," Moriarty murmured, one corner of his lips lifting in good humor. "I look forward to our next encounter when I return next month, Mister Lowell."

Lowell gaped at him as the professor gently guided him out the door, shutting it firmly in his face. For some time he stood there, still unable to find the right response to the situation.

How could the professor not see it?

**xXxXxXx**

James Moriarty dug around in his desk, unearthing a battered old photograph from deep with the third drawer. He smirked at it, taking the sight of a man with his face but clad in a Yankee uniform instead of professorial garb.

"One inconsistent relative running away nearly one hundred years ago to live in America, and we are still paying the price, Uncle Grant. You're going to haunt me for the rest of my life, aren't you?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I'm aware that those who haven't seen _Lincoln_ aren't going to get this joke. Long story short, Jared Harris plays both Professor Moriarty and Grant in their respective movies. My friend and I both had a silent freak-out when we realized this in the theater, and thus made quiet jokes about how nobody should trust Grant, and wondering where Holmes was. Yep, couldn't help myself. Eh, sue me. No, wait, don't do that!


	30. A Tea and a Chat

**Disclaimer:** As mandatory with these things, I have to say upfront I do not own _Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows,_ the characters therein nor the places or plot events spoken of. That all belongs to Guy Ritchie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their benefactors, etc. etc.

**A/N: **Well, I think I'm there. I think I've finally made it to the point where I can't continue the random drabble fic any longer. I am going to mark this as completed. I think thirty chapters is good enough. However, it does not mean I am finished with Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson. Oh, no. Indeed I am contemplating an OC-family drabble fic for the duo, in which I fully resurrect my OCs and center around them. Something more defined than this has been. I'm not sure when I will start work on it, but it should be soon. In the meantime, I thank all of you who have been faithful and still read this hodge-podge of randomness.

Who knows? Maybe I'll reopen it in the future. Thanks again.

Prompt: Two old men having a chat.

* * *

><p>"I've decided to finally accept your creative drivel for what it is, my man."<p>

"Glad to finally have your approval," I grouse in good humor, setting my tea cup down. It is rare for my friend and I to see each other in London now. He has his exploits in the Sussex Downs with those infernal bees, and I have recently begun to instruct fledgling doctors at the hospital. My own practice consists of a few token families, since the passing years have taken a terrible toll on my body. I can feel the tear of my wounds much like I did when I first acquired them in the Afghan War. I grimace to think about it, my leg twitches in mute appeal to be stretched. "It only took you thirty-five years."

"Conducting research on bee behavior is not always enough at the Downs, man. I am nothing if not thorough, Watson, and I had to be completely sure that what you were writing about me was indeed trash, or such as I found, amusing anecdotes."

"Amusing now. I distinctly recall your very public denouncement of them when you were handling that one particular lady's case..."

Holmes smirks. "Only because she revered you as a literary demi-god. Come now, fellow, it would have done you no good to have that type of comment go to your head."

I glare and narrow my eyes, conscious that the creases around them are becoming deeper as I do so. What does me no good is to point out that his own self-confidence and arrogance has inflated his ego to the size of a dirigible. Instead, I stumble on another thought and grin.

"I'm sure Irene Adler would readily agree with that sentiment, sir."

His smile turns bitter, his dark eyes become glassy as he remembers her. She's been gone for years, now, but even I can still remark the pain of her passing affected him. "True enough."

We sit in silence, sipping our tea at the cafe. Idly he regards the passersby; the young fellow had slipped off the walk in Cheapside and damaged his ankle, while the young woman had her hair singed by her dresser. I listen to all this, the observations rolling off my back when once I would have listened with rapt attention. A body can get used to anything, I suppose. I rather enjoy the peace of it all, of being able to endure my friend's insightful ramblings without the danger of being shot or chased or murdered by way of excessive dancing (years on and I believe I'm still paying for that one, as my war wounds so often remind me).

Once, long ago, it was nigh impossible to make him come out for something as trivial as tea and a chat. There was nothing better he liked than solitude and quiet contemplation. If I were still a betting man (which I confess to still having the temptation gnawing at me from time to time, but not so much as it used to), I would wager that he still does.

But there is a difference between solitude and loneliness. I certainly know this to be true.

No wife and the children no longer at home, it is a wonder that I can actually get out of bed some mornings, and I cannot blame it on my ravaged leg. I can only wonder how he bears it out in the country. He's had his little adventures out there, of course, and he's often brought me out at his expense to assist him, but it's not the same as before.

"Come, let's walk."

I take him up on his suggestion, leaning heavily on a new cane. My trusty snakewood has finally been put to pasture, the steel blade rusted from lack of use. In this day and age, a blade is virtually useless, and I am in no shape to charge into a fight. No drunken routs on the floor for me, no sir.

But as we walk, and exchange comments, I feel as though no time has passed at all.

We are two young man, our different lives and outlooks brought together by a need for adventure and the determination to deliver true justice when all other sources failed. I am not gray-haired, and he is not sagging due to hundreds of cases solved and thousands of secrets kept.

Inevitably, we find it again. Baker Street. We skirt the Underground entrance, drawing ever closer to the past. The sounds of trains seem distant, the rattling automobiles turn into the clip-clopping horses they replaced. Neither of us have been here in fifteen years. Our old flat is bordered up now, a sign telling of its condemnation. I view Holmes closing his eyes, deep breaths filling his chest, and I know he is remembering it as it was.

Home.

The beautiful staircase, the numerous pictures, the second floor studies that harbored my blooming practice and his agency. I wonder if the chemical stains are still imbedded in the floors, if the old teapot is still in the grate. I know for a fact that the VR is still puncturing the wall, patriotism living on even though the Queen has long been dead.

After we permanently evacuated the place, Mrs. Hudson sold it off, moving to the North country and cutting off all communication to us. Well, to Sherlock, anyway. For a few more years, I would receive the occasional letter from her, but she passed away not long after that. It is too bad, for 221B's new owners, numerous as they were from what I understand, chose to let it get to its broken state. After so much happened within those walls, the bastards couldn't be bothered to keep it up. So much damage, so many trials, and it takes negligence from strangers to tear it down, brick by brick.

"We could save it," I murmur quietly. Sherlock finally opens his eyes, looks at me. I glance back at the building, pointing at it unnecessarily with my cane. "You and I have the funds for it, and we could-"

"No," he rejects me firmly. "It's beyond us now, John."

I nod, taking his coldness in stride. The past is the past, no sense trying to bring back what you can't. But the wistfulness in his face, which even he at his most devious couldn't hide, tells me how much he wishes he could. I know my own expression is mirroring his.

"Come on," I prompt him gently, tugging his sleeve. "No one needs to see two old men getting worked up on a public walkway."

He chuckles, though the look remains. "Indeed, they do not."

We wander away, lost to the past and our thoughts, when Holmes just stops dead in his tracks. The sudden quirk of his eyebrows make me feel concerned.

"What is it?"

He blinks. "I can't remember if I left the stove on."

I can't help it, a barking laugh flies out of me, shaking my weary body as I do so.

"Knowing you, you probably did, old man."

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><p><strong>AN 2: **I will point out that in the original stories, it is posited that Watson married not only once, but possibly twice, and one would think that one of those marriages would have produced children. So at least there's that. Oh, well...have a good night, or day, depending where you are, and I'll catch you guys later!


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